


What Was and Now What Isn't

by tinyegg



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Amnesiac Stiles Stilinski, BAMF Stiles, Crossover, Everyone Is Alive, F/M, Fluffy Ending, Gen, M/M, Maze Runner AU, Multi, Newt Lives, Pack Bonding, Stiles Stilinski is Thomas (Maze Runner), WICKED's goal is now to train kids into hunters, post s4 teen wolf, pretty much the whole pack is here but I'll tag them as they appear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-04-20 13:39:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4789271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyegg/pseuds/tinyegg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"S-Stiles?" The tanned one croaks, arms falling to his sides. Thomas doesn't know who he's calling to and doesn't care. He shoves past him, grabs the young werewolf on his right and puts the gun to his head. </p><p>He glances towards Teresa and Minho, who form a defensive circle around Newt, who's cradling his injured arm to his chest. Thomas' jaw tightens. He raises his voice, keeps it cool and steady though he knows the werewolves can hear his heart jackhammering against his chest. "Release him. Or I will shoot."</p><p>He scans the room, expects anger but only receives hurt and confused looks in return. Then that boy says it again, with more urgency and Thomas realizes in shock that it's directed at him.</p><p>"Stiles."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! This is a Maze Runner/Teen Wolf crossover if you haven't figured that out already. The concept is basically that Thomas, Newt, Teresa and Minho took down WICKED, allowing themselves and the other remaining Gladers to escape. The Flare does not actually exist and is a disease manufactured by WICKED. WICKED's ultimate goal was to train them into hunters who hate supernatural creatures and would kill them without remorse.

On some days, they're just a close-knit group of friends; laughing and chucking curly fries at each other at diners. They tease each other endlessly, they're carefree and they're happy. On other days, they're broken children, victims to merciless puppeteers who manipulated them, destroyed who they were before and pitted them against each other. They wake up screaming at night, cling to each other like if they don't keep a strong grip on this reality, they'll slip back into nightmares of the past.

But every day, they are who they were trained to be. Hunters - Runners, they call themselves in fact. It's so that they won't forget all of those who they lost on the way, the names scrawled on the walls of the Glade; Winston, Alby... Chuck.

Thomas. Minho. Newt. Teresa. They stick together, protect each other. That's how they are, that's how they'll always be. And Thomas is content with that. Even if they'll never see their old lives again, what does it matter? No one could even come close to understanding the horrors they'd been through in that godforsaken place.

"Hey, shuckface. What're you thinking so hard about?"

He laughs. "At least I _can_ think, shank. Your muscles are bigger than your brain."

Minho huffs, flexing his biceps in reply. "After all that WICKED klunk, I really don't mind that being the case." 

They sit in comfortable silence, until Teresa slides the door open and gestures for them to come inside. "It's cold. And I've gotten a new location. Reports sound like werewolves." 

Thomas gets up first and offers Minho a hand. He takes it and they head inside.

"Okay so from these reports we know that it's not a stable pack right? Seems more like omegas, killing any unlucky hiker who they come across." Thomas studied the files and papers Teresa had methodically arranged on the table.

"But there's got to be an Alpha somewhere turning them. He's the real problem. We can kill all the omegas we want, which we will but he's the one we need to stop." Minho flipped the sheet over. "Hey Teresa, where did you say the locale was?" 

Teresa pursed her lips. "The thing is that the town is strange. There were multiple reports of 'animal attacks' dating way back before we were even in the Maze but they stopped for a while. Then they started up again half a year later. Even when there weren't animal attacks, there was a point where there were about three serial killers in a month —"

"Three?" Thomas doesn't like the sound of this town. "There's too many things to label this a coincidence. There's more going on in this town than just werewolves." 

"So... we're checking it out then?" Minho gives them a small grin.

Teresa smiles back. "Oh, definitely. Now the question is: How are we getting Newt into the car? Should we wake him?"

Minho snorts. "Nah. That shank has the most innocent baby-face when he sleeps and I'll bet Thomas wouldn't want to wake him, huh?"

Thomas feels his cheeks burn. "Shut up, idiot. Newt's been scouting all night, of course we shouldn't wake him. He's exhausted. I'll explain things to him in the car when he wakes up."

Minho just throws him a lazy wink, as he packs up his belongings. Thomas feels the strong urge to hurl a pillow at him, but refrains as he knows it'll just end up in an all-out wrestling match. 

He sighs and starts packing.

 

The car jerks to a stop.

Thomas rubs a hand over his bleary eyes. Beside him, Newt is stirring awake.

"Where the bloody hell are we?" 

Thomas stifles a chuckle. Apparently Newt isn't very happy to be awake. But the mood is abruptly broken when Teresa points out the signboard in front of them. Thomas sucks in a breath. What was once a cheery sign proclaiming "Welcome To Beacon Hills!", had faded into muted colours that looked weary and dusty. Even worse, was that someone had crossed out the population number multiple times in red ink. 

It sends a clear message. 

Population dwindling. 

"Wow, cheerful welcome much?" Newt snorts and rolls back over to sleep. Thomas exchanges a look with Minho. If this isn't an ominous enough sign, Thomas honestly doesn't know what could drive them away. Still, he nods. They've come this far. Teresa drives past the sign and into town.

 

In stark contrast to the sign, the town is in fact quite cheery. There are children running around, laughing as they play tag and get up to all kinds of mischief. Subconsciously, both of them are staring wistfully. The kids are like a reminder of what they could have been, probably what they were before WICKED stole them away and warped their lives into the twisted reality they've been living in for the past year. 

"It's strange, ain't it?" Newt gives Thomas a knowing look. "Seeing these kids happy, knowing we were probably just like them." 

With a bitter taste in his mouth, Thomas replies. "Knowing the Flare, the Maze, none of what we suffered through was ever even _real_." 

Newt goes quiet. Thomas feels an unspoken message pass between them. 

Yeah, Newt knows all that better than anyone. He was the one who was in the Glade longer than any of them, the one who wasn't Immune to the Flare. The one who thought his blood carried the infection and wanted to die because of it. 

Thomas feels a shiver run through his body. He could have killed him. Was going to, in fact. He still remembers the cold metal of the gun in his palm, his hand shaking as he lifts the gun, tears flowing down his cheeks as he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. 

Then, he feels warmth. Newt doesn't say anything, but he presses his hand into Thomas'. 

He lets out a shaky breath. That's all he needs.

Later, he receives a text from Minho. They've found a motel to stay at and a place to eat. They all eat together and relish their last normal night before they start hunting the omegas. Somehow, from the electricity in the seemingly sleepy town's air, Thomas knows that something is about to change.  


 

"No, it turned out to be another dead end." Scott says. His voice picks up a little in an attempt to sound optimistic, "But we've got Malia, Peter, Kira, Erica and Boyd up in San Fransisco on another lead!"

He hears a pause on the other end of the line. Finally, Sheriff Stilinski says, "Okay. That's good, Scott. Thank you."

There's a click and Scott heaves a gusty sigh. This is the part he hates the most. It's painful enough hearing that another burst of hope led to nothing but false reports and dead ends, but telling the Sheriff that his son is still missing without a trace is like rubbing salt into the wound again.

They've been searching for a year. But there still isn't a trace of Stiles or where he could be. It's like he fell off the face of the earth. It's just not possible for someone to disappear so completely, but Scott can hear even the Sheriff slowly losing hope every time he hangs up the phone.

He's tried to be there for the older Stilinski, him and Melissa both. But with the Pack to look after and his mom on night shifts and the hospital, they can't ever hope to fill the void that Stiles left when he vanished.

He's broken out of his thoughts when his phone vibrates. He answers it and Derek's voice fills the phone. "Scott, you need to get here. Now. The omegas are dead."  
He's already leaping onto his bike before he replies, "On my way."

 

 

Derek paces the room frustratedly, before declaring, with the hint of a growl in his throat, "This doesn't make any sense!"

Lydia tilts her head, raising an eyebrow. "I thought we already established that, Derek."

Scott hushes the two of them. "Guys, stop. We don't need to argue over this. Let's just go over the details again and try to figure it out." After the both of them give him a terse nod, he continues. 

"Okay, three things. Rabid omegas. An Alpha who's been going around turning them. And now hunters, who have trespassed on our territory and wiped out pretty much all the omegas, in one day." Scott pauses.

It's times like these that the pack feels the loss of Stiles the most. If he were here, he'd be buzzing all over the place, with his transparent board and red yarn, researching, putting the pieces together, telling them what the hell was actually going on. Scott had become more 'zen', as Stiles would put it, but he has never been good at piecing puzzles together like he was.

"We've grown in the last few years, Scott. Hunters know better than to come onto our territory without asking Chris first. These hunters obviously don't follow the Code and aren't in touch with the rest of the hunter community." Derek says, clearly unhappy with the whole situation.

"Either that, or they don't care." Isaac adds flippantly.

Derek growls a little at that but he stops when Allison speaks up. "Wait, this is a hunter thing right? Why not we ask my dad? He has lots of contacts in the community, plus we still have the bodies so we could get him to examine them and see if he has any idea who these hunters are."

Scott is absolutely lovestruck, and doesn't hesitate to kiss his girlfriend right in front of everyone. No one gags at this point, taking their sappiness as normal. Allison finally pulls away, smiling, and holds up her phone. "Just give me a moment to call him."

 

 

Chris frowns, mumbling to himself about the cause of death, the weapons used. It seems there's a variety, from guns, to wolfsbane serums, to straight up knife wounds. The Pack hovers over him worriedly. If Chris doesn't know what this is, then they don't have many other leads to go on.

"So, sir. Do you know who might be responsible?" Scott tries.

Chris doesn't answer for a long time and the pack doesn't push it. But then, he gives a small nod. "I've heard rumours. A few months ago, a bunch of teenagers took down the WICKED facility. They split but a smaller group of them became hunters. They call themselves the Runners."

"Why? And what's WICKED?" Scott furrows his brow in confusion.

Chris shakes his head. "I don't know. Much of all this is rumour. I didn't think WICKED actually existed before this, but it's supposed to be a facility that... well, kidnaps people and trains them to become hunters. Usually teenagers, whose lives have been badly affected by the supernatural. They erase their memories and send them through a series of trials that force them to fight and survive. Later, they return some of their memories of the supernatural to fuel their hatred and drive them to hunt supernatural creatures."

"That's... horrible." Allison's eyes are wide and her hands are clapped over her mouth in shock. Chris looks at her and nods wearily.

"And the Runners?" Derek asks. If it's them behind the death of the omegas, it looks like the Pack could be in danger too. Whatever emerged from a training facility like that could be nothing but dangerous.

"I don't know much about them either. They only have one real connection to the hunter community, who provides them weapons and nothing else. And even that hunter is a partial recluse." Chris sighs through his nose.

"But what I _do_ know is the location of the Alpha that's been turning those omegas." Chris' eyes turn determined and he points a finger to the map on the table. "Mikael told me he's been turning mostly for fun, so don't hesitate to take him down. His den is on the edge of the Preserve."

Lydia's green eyes study the map carefully. "And if we know where the Alpha is... I think it's safe to assume that these Runners probably are aware of it as well. And considering the efficiency they work with, they'll probably attack—"

"Tonight." Scott finishes and his eyes flare red.

Finally, they have some semblance of a plan. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! So, I was pretty spurred on by all the kudos and comments you guys left so here's the new chapter, a little earlier than promised :) 
> 
> (Thomas right now is just confusion galore and Newt's a little shit.)

The omegas had nothing on them, but their Alpha is something different. He seems half-crazed himself and dances around them taunting and jeering. It doesn't help that he caught them off guard and incapacitated Newt with his first blow. 

Thomas fires off another round. He grins in satisfaction when he sees at least three bullets hit. They aren't wolfsbane but they certainly slow the Alpha down, providing an opportunity for Minho to slash him with his dual swords. The werewolf roars in pain and swipes at them wildly. Both Thomas and Minho dodge easily and they start running, luring the Alpha away from Newt and Teresa. 

The Alpha chases after them, recovering quickly from their blows. He huffs and his eyes gleam with malice as he says, "You think... I don't know what you're doing... huh? You think I don't have some... _backup_?" 

Dread sinks in his stomach and Thomas yells, "He's turned more!" 

Minho turns to him in horror. "Newt and Teresa!"

Thomas pants, "We have to end this... now." Suddenly an idea strikes him. "Follow me!" He doesn't know how he knows where to go but he lets his instinct guide him. His feet pound at the earth, he can hear his heartbeat in his ears as the werewolf gives a bloodthirsty howl but all he can think about is how Newt and Teresa will be caught unaware if this doesn't work...

They burst through the trees. The cliff comes into view but Thomas doesn't stop running. Neither does Minho. Memories from the Maze flash through his mind; the pure terror at seeing a Griever rush right at him reminds him that this Alpha is nothing compared to what he faced in there. Conviction settles over him and he thinks, _we_ will _win._

Beside him, Minho grits his teeth. They both know what comes next and in that moment, they're perfectly in sync. Connected like two bodies with one soul. They duck and roll away at the last moment, leaving the Alpha barrelling towards them with no regard for his life to run straight over the cliff. They hear his howls as he plummets and bow their heads when the howls come to an abrupt stop.

It seems that the Alpha's utter recklessness was what brought his end. Thomas is shaking slightly, with fear or excitement, he can't tell. But there isn't time to work that out. He starts running back, with Minho hot on his heels.

 

 

"Newt, stop being a baby. I just have to apply this, then bandage it. Don't move." Teresa reprimands him lightly as Newt turns his head to the side, scowling. 

"I know, but getting taken out right from the start with one lucky blow? What am I, some snot-nosed Greenie? What a load of klunk." He grumbles. Silence falls upon the two. 

A silence that is quickly broken by a low growling nearby. "Teresa, you hear that?" Newt scans the surrounding trees. Teresa lowers her head, listening intently as well. The growling swells to a roar and a large, shadowy mass erupts from the trees. The glowing yellow eyes swing around wildly before locking onto the two of them. Newt barely has time to curse before the creature lunges at them, forcing Teresa to drag him to the side as they narrowly avoid the attack. 

But then, three more omegas emerge from the trees, snarling and flashing their glowing eyes. This time, Newt does have time to swear. 

"Bloody werewolves."

One of them leaps towards him suddenly, claws outstretched, slamming his head against the tree. Jaws snap at his face and Newt can barely fend him off with his knife. With a groan of pain, he gives a sharp jab, ramming the knife into the werewolf's ribs, causing him to rear away in pain. Black spots crowd his vision. _Shit, this isn't good._  

Teresa catches sight of him and she shouts, "I'll lure them away!" 

Newt watches her click on a beaming light which all the mindless omegas are instantly drawn to and dash away. He tried his best to stay conscious but the head-splitting ache and black spots overwhelm him until Newt is lost to the world. 

His eyes drift shut and his head lolls against the tree just as a thunderous howl echoes throughout the forest.

 

 

Scott bends down beside the unconscious boy with sandy hair. "Yeah, this is definitely one of those Runners. He's got hunting gear and everything." Scott feels uncomfortable and he knows all of his pack is too, without even needing to tap into the pack bond. They knew these Runners were teenagers but even still... they hadn't expected them to look so young. And defenceless. 

The boy was no older than them. 

"He's injured," Allison finally says. "What should we do with him?" 

Scott rubs a hand against his face. "Where are the others? They'll come back for him... right?" All of them exchange looks. No one knew for sure what the Runners were like, whether they'd abandon one of their own just like that. After all, they seemed to have left this one to the omegas. _Still no idea how an unconscious boy had survived that one._

"Actually we should bring him back." Derek says. Scott looks at him in surprise. "We can question him on what he knows, maybe finally get some answers." 

Lydia nods. "I for one, want to know exactly what WICKED is. And how they've been kidnapping children across the country without anyone ever realizing." 

"And we could maybe treat his injuries?" Allison ventures. She has no idea what the boy is like when he's awake, but right now, she can't help but feel sympathy towards him. WICKED or not, he was a fellow hunter. 

Scott nods. "Derek, Isaac. Get him to the car."

 

 

The first thing Newt is aware of is the cold, hard metal digging into his left wrist. Captured. But by who? _Werewolves?_

Panic rises in his throat. Had he been bitten? No, he can definitely still feel the dull throb of pain from the injuries he sustained earlier. Strange as it is, immense relief swells up in him. His life is shucked enough without adding becoming a furry shape-shifter into the mix. 

The sound of a girl talking drifts to his ears. Newt strains to hear what she's talking about because whatever it is, she sounds worried.

"He was knocked out cold, Derek. Even when he wakes up, I doubt he'll be cooperative if you try to force him to talk. From what Chris said, that training facility must have drilled them into being able to endure that sort of thing, right?" 

Newt takes all of this in, storing away the names Derek and Chris in his head, but stiffens when he hears the word 'training facility'. Did they know about WICKED? He forces himself to calm down. It's a miracle the werewolves didn't hear his panic earlier on, he definitely didn't want to draw attention to himself now.

"Yes, but we've got to try. These guys took down all those omegas and the alpha we've had trouble with for a month. They did it in two days." 'Derek' sounds miffed by that and Newt has to stop himself from smirking. 

_Hell yeah, the Runners are the best around._

"I think Allison's right. If we get him to understand that we want to help, he might be willing to answer our questions." A voice to his right says. He sounds like a teenager, a boy around Thomas' age actually. 

"Yeah, I agree with Scott." A younger sounding boy pipes up. 

Newt has to admit he's curious about these guys but if they're going to ask about WICKED, he doesn't want to talk about it. As his head clears, he realizes that only one of his hands is chained to the pole. His other hand and his leg are covered in fresh bandages. They treated him. Newt kind of wants to laugh but he doesn't know what he finds so ironic about the situation so he keeps quiet. 

Suddenly, there's a blinding flash of light to his left. He's lucky that his eyes have been closed the whole time as he fakes unconsciousness. Suck it shuckfaces, he thinks, as the wolves whine in protest due to their heightened senses. He can barely stop himself from grinning. He only knows one shank who uses such obnoxious flashbombs.

Newt squints through narrowed eyes. Standing in front of him, brandishing his dual swords at the growling werewolves, is Minho. Teresa appears from behind him a moment later, flicking hair from her face, her voice a little more than exasperated.

"Always the drama queen. Stop rushing in yourself, hothead." 

Newt usually couldn't agree more, but he's sort of having fun watching the werewolves gape in shock. He sees Derek scowl and say, "They came in through the balcony." Newt even feels a little bad for them now. Appears they've got some brushing up on security they've got to do. 

 _But where,_ Newt wonders, _is Thomas?_

 

 

Thomas grips the gun in his hand tightly. Out of all of them, it's like he's the only one who's actually worried. Minho is itching for a fight and Teresa doesn't seem all that bothered. Like them, he knows that Newt can take care of himself. 

But injured Newt, left to the mercy of a pack of potentially vicious werewolves? That's another story altogether. Call it active paranoia, Thomas just wants his friend to be alright. 

So when he nears the doorway and sees Newt, unconscious and handcuffed to a pole, he feels like shoving wolfsbane down the werewolves' throats. He grinds his teeth together and strides in with all the composure he can muster.

 

 

Scott stumbles backwards as the striking flash of light blinds him. Flashbombs. The hunters have come for their friend. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear the white spots dancing in his vision. Finally, when his vision clears, there's a well-built Asian boy standing in front of the sandy-haired hunter and another hunter with long, wavy hair striding in.

She says something about the Asian being a hothead and a drama queen but he just shrugs it off with a smile. Clearly they have some strong camaraderie, Scott thinks as he watches them position themselves in a defensive circle around their injured friend without speaking.

Scott raises his arms warily, ready to defend if needed. These hunters storm into the den - their home, wielding weapons and clearly ready for a fight. He isn't that prone to anger, but he finds his throat emitting a low growl at the intruders. He'd thought that the pack and the hunters had come to some tenuous form of agreement, but the Runners obviously didn't subscribe to any of that. 

He feels anger pulsing through the pack bond, from Derek especially. Scott may be Alpha, but the territory's belonged to Hales for generations. Blatant disregard of the boundaries like this probably pisses Derek off more than anyone. 

Scott notes with curiosity that the hunters haven't made a move yet, aside from the Asian boy flashing a cocky smile and the girl surveying them with interest. It's almost like they're... waiting for someone. 

For who, he soon discovers as their last arrival stalks in through the main entrance. 

He's wearing a dark red jacket over a plain shirt and combat boots. Tightly gripped in his fist is a handgun, though there's a larger gun strapped to his back. Scott can tell from the determined set of his jaw, which only tightens when he catches sight of his injured friend, that this one means business. 

It's only when Scott meets his eyes, whiskey-coloured eyes burning with icy rage, that he feels his breath catch in his throat. The hunter is horribly familiar, even though his hair is grown out, and he moves with a cold stillness that is so, so wrong. 

With an ache almost too painful to bear, Scott calls for his best friend. His voice comes out weak and near-pathetic but he doesn't care. How could he when _he's_ been missing for over a year and come back so different? Scott can't can't wrap his mind around it and he feels himself sway, leaning on Allison for support. 

"S-Stiles?"

 

 

"S-Stiles?" The tanned one croaks, arms falling to his sides. Thomas doesn't know who he's calling to and doesn't care. He shoves past him, grabs the young werewolf on his right and puts the gun to his head. 

He glances towards Teresa and Minho, who form a defensive circle around Newt, who's cradling his injured arm to his chest even as he's unconscious. Thomas' jaw tightens. He raises his voice, keeps it cool and steady though he knows the werewolves can hear his heart jackhammering against his chest. "Release him. Or I will shoot."

He scans the room, expects anger but only receives hurt and confused looks in return. Then that boy says it again, with more urgency and Thomas realizes in shock that it's directed at him.

"Stiles." 

Confusion hits him hard and he has to steel himself mentally so he doesn't lose his grip on the young werewolf. But the strangest part is that he's not even struggling, not even trying to get out of his grip. Just like the rest, the werewolf is staring at him in shock more than fear, even with a gun pressed against his head. 

Thomas has no idea what's going on. After all the lies and manipulation WICKED has put him through, he hates that feeling. So he forces himself to level his gaze with the Alpha's. Who, judging from the way the others gravitate around him, is that tanned boy with the puppy-dog eyes. His voice is sharp and harsh as he spits out, "What the hell is a Stiles?" 

The red-headed girl on the left chokes. Whether she was about to laugh or cry, Thomas can't tell. _Focus,_ he thinks, keeping his gaze on the Alpha. "I'm not going to say it again. Release Newt, now." 

The boy stumbles forward slightly, his eyes still wide with shock. He's acting less like an Alpha and more like a kicked puppy, Thomas thinks. The boy stares at him with those damn puppy eyes like he's the one who's doing the kicking but Thomas can't figure out what he's doing that's so terrible. Shouldn't they be expecting this sort of behaviour from hunters anyway? 

"Thomas..." Teresa speaks up from behind him, her voice soft and cautious. "I think that's _you_. I think that's your _name_." 

He doesn't understand and has to run the words through his short-circuited mind again. Thomas reels backwards and his fingers don't slip from the werewolf's shoulders but the gun clatters to the floor. "Wha... what?" 

Teresa takes a small step forward, gaze travelling around the room slowly. "These people... I think they knew you, from... before."

The Alpha hurries forward, arms outstretched. He says a little breathlessly, "Yeah! Yeah we know you, Stiles. Please, it's me, Scott! Just..." His voice fades when he sees Thomas backing away from him. Thomas sees his eyes glisten with hurt. 

He doesn't even know why, but he feels so bad, like he's done something wrong. He wants to apologize, no, he doesn't know them, there's probably been some kind of mistake. But if these people really did know him from before... 

Thomas realizes that he's trembling with some emotion he can't identify. _Goddamn_ , he's sorry, but he can't remember. There are so many things running through his mind but his throat closes up and all he can say is, "Are you saying I ran with _werewolves_?" 

Minho shakes his head, looking a little awed despite himself. "Only you, Thomas."

Scott looks more lost than ever. "Why do they call you Thomas, Stiles? What's going on?" Thomas knows that the werewolves aren't actually doing anything wrong but he feels all control slipping away from the situation so he does the only thing he can.

He sweeps the gun up and jams it back to the young werewolf's skull. "Get Newt out of the handcuffs first, then we'll talk." 

A beat passes. Then two. Finally, Scott nods, though his eyes never leave Thomas'. One of his betas, an older man with dark hair unlocks Newt's handcuffs. Thomas gestures to Minho, "Help him up." 

Suddenly, a cool, crisp voice says, "Actually, that won't be necessary. I've been conscious the whole time." Newt stands up by himself, though with a little difficulty and brushes himself off. Despite looking worse for the wear, he appears pleased with himself.

 _That sneaky shit!_ Immediately, Thomas releases the werewolf and rushes to him, sweeping him in a tight hug. Newt laughs. "Bloody hell, Tommy. Threatening a beta in front of his whole pack for me? Very flattering."

Thomas is so relieved that Newt is okay, he laughs a little. "Don't flatter yourself, shuckface. I thought you'd been held hostage, bitten or worse." 

Newt rolls his eyes. "I don't go down that easy, Tommy. Now you're just being mean." 

Thomas finally steps back and looks at the werewolf pack, who now seem uncomfortable and out of place, even in their own den. He's a lot more calm now that he has Newt by his side and he says, "If you really did know me, we probably have a lot to talk about." 

Scott opens his mouth but Thomas continues before he says anything. "But not now. We'll come find you when we're ready." He glances at the bandages running down his own arms and he knows the pack's staring at them too. Gah, now that all the danger is over, his wounds are really starting to sting. Newt is obviously exhausted too and he discreetly moves closer to him to offer support. Newt flashes him a grateful smile. 

He can still sense the pack's attention heavily focused on them. They still want to talk. But everyone's tired, even Minho, who won't ever admit it.

He drapes Newt over his shoulders and turns to leave. He doesn't really know what to say next. The werewolves aren't his enemies any more and he notes with some gratitude that they actually treated Newt's injuries, but they aren't exactly his friends either. 

So he just gives Scott a nod of acknowledgement and walks out, with Teresa and Minho at his back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preview for what's next: 
> 
> Scott has to deal with informing Sheriff Stilinski that yay! Stiles is alive but nay! He has no idea who he is, who the pack is and kind of threatened to shoot Liam in the head. Fun times for everyone, eh? 
> 
> Also, Thomas may or may not approach the baby werewolf himself and plan a meeting with the pack.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter's up! Phew, it can be pretty hard to balance writing and school but hey I'm doing my best - unfortunately, this chapter isn't 100% edited so please do bear with grammatical errors, if you come across them. Other than that, enjoy! This chapter's less action and more talking but I believe that talking is action in itself when written right :)

It's like the world is playing one awful, cruel joke on him. Derek doesn't even protest as Scott slams his fist into the table, splintering the wood in two. After so long, after any hope they still clung to started to seem pointless, his best friend strolled right into his home. 

And he doesn't remember him. He doesn't remember any of the pack - doesn't even know who he _is_. He doesn't remember being Stiles Stilinski, Scott's best friend.

"He thinks his name is Thomas." Scott whispers and he hears his voice splinter like the coffee table, coming out rough, hurt and angry. _W_ _hat the hell did they do to you?_ The pack gives him a wide berth, looking on in silence. Allison steps forward, arms outstretched like she wants to wrap her arms around him but she halts, warned by the rage pouring off her Alpha in waves. Derek mutedly begins sweeping the broken pieces of what used to be the coffee table to the side.

"He was taken, Scott. It's not his fault." Allison says gently.

"I know that!" Scott snaps. He lowers his head when he sees Allison jump. "Sorry. It's just... did you see the look on his face? It was completely blank. He doesn't know any of us. Not even... not even me. He didn't react to his name at all - he put a _gun_ to Liam's head for god's sake!"

He says it in a broken whisper, almost afraid of the words coming out of his own mouth. "It's like... he's not even the same person any more. Stiles would never threaten an innocent!"

Surprisingly, it's Liam who comforts him with a calmness no one expected from the usually hot-blooded beta. Placing a hand on Scott's shoulder, he says, "Scott, he's part of the Runners now. No one knows what terrible things he's been through while he was with WICKED. Maybe we should consider it a good sign he didn't attack first, even though that's what he was probably trained to do."

Scott looks at his beta and takes a deep, steadying breath. "You're right. Also, erasing memories? It can't be permanent. If we just explain everything, maybe it'll all come back to him! And if that doesn't work, then... then I can check with Deaton! He has to know _some_ way to recover memories."

Hope blooms across the faces of the pack and Scott straightens with a new sense of optimism. He may not be the Stiles they remember, but he's found, he's safe and he's alive. That's enough for now. He digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone.

"But first, we've got calls to make."

 

 

Lydia is speaking to Malia on the phone in the next room. Malia doesn't sound too panicked, Scott distantly notes as he hears her over the sound of the dial tone as he waits for the Sheriff to pick up.

"Hello? Scott?"

He finds himself at a loss for words. _I really should have planned how I was going explain this mess before calling_ , he groans internally. "Hi," he begins. _Well, that's a good place to start as any._  
"How was the lead in San Francisco?" Stilinski doesn't sound like he's expecting much, certainly not more than another dead end. Scott draws in a deep breath.

"It doesn't matter now. We found him sir. We found Stiles —"

"What?" he hears a loud thump as phone falls from Stilinski's hand and is hastily retrieved. "Where? Where is my boy?"

"We found him right here in Beacon Hills, about ten minutes ago," Scott says. "But—"

"I'm coming to see him now, tell him I'm coming Scott!" He hears shuffling and a muffled 'Parrish, take over!' on the other end of the line. He feels his heart sink.

"Sheriff, he's not with us now."

"What? What do you mean he's not with you? You said you found him!"

"He's..." Scott swallows. "Not himself. He was kidnapped and he had his memories wiped and he's gone off with the rest of the Runners, needs to tend to his injuries I think," Scott stops himself there when he realizes that he's babbling. He waits nervously for a response but all he gets in return is radio crackling. Scott clears his throat and says tentatively, "Why not you come over? I don't think this is a conversation we should have over the phone."

He waits. And waits. And finally, he hears a muted "okay" and Sheriff Stilinski hangs up.

He supposes that could have gone worse, but probably not by much. He groans, runs a hand through his hair and sinks lower into his chair.

 

 

They go over everything with Sheriff Stilinski, with corrections from Lydia and reassurances from all the pack. Finally, he seems to accept that the pack isn't making it up, that his son was really here.

And that he left.

"He said he would come find us when he's ready." Liam says, a hopeful gleam in his eyes. Despite getting off to a somewhat rocky start, Scott realizes with a pang that Liam really looked up to Stiles too.

"How... how was he?" Stilinski asks. "Was he still... Stiles?"

Scott swallows and it feels like he's choking down toxic air. He knows exactly how Stilinski feels. "They called him Thomas. He came in and..." he pauses and shakes his head. He doesn't think Stilinski's ready to hear that his son put a gun to Liam's head. "Treated us like enemies. But despite that, he didn't actually hurt any of us..." he trails off.

Lydia cuts in smoothly. "He stormed the place looking ready to murder all of us. But it was because he thought that we were holding his injured friend captive. He doesn't remember who he is, but he defends his friends as fiercely as he always has."

Derek nods. "He's Stiles."

Stilinski reclines in his chair, rubbing his temples. "Okay. Okay. So what do we do now?"

The pack looks to their Alpha. "Not much to do. He said they'll find us when they're ready. I trust Stiles." Scott says determinedly.

"So we wait."

 

 

"Mind if I join you out here?" Minho squats beside him, holding out a can of coffee. Thomas accepts it and takes a long drink, feeling the coolness trickle down his throat. His insides feel like they're on fire, but his brain feels frozen and numb. Side effect of finding out a pack of werewolves who kidnapped your best friend might actually be the people you've been yearning to meet as long as you remember, he supposes.

"Lovely weather out here, huh. Biting cold and all," Thomas says dryly.

Minho snorts. "I guess I should take your ability to dredge up some sarcasm, even though you clearly look like shit, as a good sign." He sips from his drink, allowing the silence to stretch between them. Thomas keeps his eyes on the drink in his hand, avoiding Minho's gaze. He knows what Minho really came here for.

"Really though, Thomas. Are you okay?"

_There it is._ "M'fine," he mumbles, taking another sip of his drink, before it's suddenly swiped away from his hands. "Hey," he protests weakly, barely making the effort to snatch it back.

Minho gives him a stern glare. "No bullshit, or I won't give it back. Now spill, Thomas. I'm not all that great with emotional heart-to-hearts but I can't stand seeing you wallow in misery like this."

Thomas's features crease into a frown. "I don't know, Minho," he admits. "I just feel so confused and... disappointed. But I don't know why. I didn't even _care_ who my past family and friends were any more - at least, before yesterday."

Minho shifts, stretching out his legs. "Is it that bad having werewolves as your past friends? They clearly cared for you a lot."

"No," Thomas shakes his head vigorously. "That's not it. I... It just feels underwhelming, you know? I thought that once I found my family, we'd make eye contact or something and we'd just... know. I thought there would be a teary reunion where everyone's hugging and all my memories start rushing back. But when I met the werewolves, there was nothing. It just felt like... the wound I left when I disappeared had already closed. And coming back was just me tearing open their old wounds again." He locks his fingers together, hoping that Minho won't catch that they're trembling.

Minho is quiet for a long time. Then he shakes his head, almost ruefully. "Look, I may not have magical werewolf senses that detect emotions but the people in that pack? They weren't just hurt that you came back different - they were more worried about what must have happened to change their friend so drastically. Yeah, it may take them some time to accept that you've changed, but if they truly were your friends, they'll come around eventually."

Thomas' stare doesn't leave the ground. He bites his lip. "But I can't help but feel that I'm just making things worse, for them and for me. I invaded their home and threatened to blow their beta's brains out. They must think that I'm a monster."

"You know," Minho eyes fixate on a point in the faraway distance. "Not everyone has ideal families waiting for them back home either." He finishes his can, crumples it and sets it down. "I've been thinking. WICKED erases our memories, but the skills we used to have. Remember the time I swiped some money off that CEO guy to get us credit cards? Well, what must I have done as a kid for stealing to become an actual un-erasable part of me?"

Thomas' head jerks up. "Oh shit. I'm so sorry, Min." The heavy weight of guilt descends on him again. His friend was troubled this whole time, and he never took to the time to notice or reach out, only whine about his own problems.

Minho looks up, eyes sharp. "Stop it, Thomas. Don't feel bad, it's not really a big deal. I'm just saying, that considering some of us may not even have a home to get back to, be grateful that you've found yours. Just promise me you'll do your best to reconnect to these people, okay? You deserve a loving family and all that klunk after what you've been through."

The corner of his lip twitches. Feeling a rise in spirits, Thomas punches Minho playfully. "Who said you weren't good at all this sappy heart-to-heart shit, huh? That got loads off my chest. You should consider making this your profession."

Minho chuckles. "I'm more of a tough, blade-wielding badass kind of guy. This took up all the sentimentality I had in me. Oh yeah," he tosses the can back, which Thomas catches with ease. "Catch. You've earned it."

He takes a much deserved drink when a sudden thought strikes him.

"Hey if it makes you feel better," Thomas puts on a pondering expression. "I hung out with werewolves as a human and came to the Glade with an unprecedented talent for running. Put two and two together and... how much time do you think I spent running away screaming from supernatural creatures?"

That gets the reaction he expects and he has to conceal his grin as Minho lets loose a wild, honking laugh that quickly dissolves into — manly, of course — giggles.

"Oh man, you must have been such a wimpy slinthead." Minho says between his fits of laughter.

Thomas pretends to be offended and slugs him in the shoulder again, which just makes him laugh more. Soon, Thomas gives up the pretence and laughs along with him. It feels so good to laugh again, he just doesn't want to stop.

"We got it -" They're interrupted by the creak of the door as opens. Teresa stares at the two of them, sitting outside on the balcony during winter laughing their asses off, wearing nothing but normal shirts and pants and looks away pointedly. "Do I even want to know?"

Thomas shouts "no!" at the exact same time Minho sniggers "definitely!" They burst into laughter again. Teresa waits for them with patience developed from experience until their laughter dies down. Finally, Thomas remarks, breathing a little shallow. "You two are back early."

"Wasn't exactly hard to find the kid. Only one high school in the whole town." Newt says, holding up boxes of pasta. "Also, I bought dinner."

A gurgle in his stomach alerts Thomas that he is indeed hungry. "Alright," he claps his hands together. "We'll talk about it over dinner." They set up the plates and makeshift dinner/strategy table and settle down.

"Okay, so how are we gonna approach this kid?" Minho's voice is muffled by the pasta stuffed in his mouth. Thomas sends Teresa a sympathetic look before he turns back to answer.

"Non-threatening, definitely. No weapons, unless he physically slams you against a locker or something. Also, we're splitting into pairs. Two reasons: If Beacon High is the only high school around, I was attending it only a year ago." _Shuck_ _, that's hard to imagine._ "People would recognise me and we don't want that for obvious reasons. Another thing, he might get defensive if it looks like we're cornering him. Just get him between classes and bring him to me." Thomas says.

"Where will you be?" Teresa asks.

"Somewhere nearby. I'll text the location when I find it." Thomas pauses and runs through a quick analysis of possible pairs. Teresa: can actually speak to werewolves without threatening them so that's a yes. Minho: hothead, so a little risky but can be managed if he's warned beforehand. _I want Newt with me though; he's still not fully recovered._

"Minho and Teresa, you blend in with the high schoolers and find Liam. Newt and I will stay behind and wait." Thomas decides. The others nod with satisfaction.  


It's settled then. They'll get Liam tomorrow.

 

 

Liam guesses he should have known they'd go after him. They clearly saw him as the weakest link in the pack. Stiles, at first glance, had singled him out as the one best suited to have a gun jammed against his head, after all.

But he didn't expect this.

"Um, Liam? Aren't you going to answer your friends?" Hayden gestures vaguely to the stands, a faint frown on her lips.

"They're not my friends. I don't know them." Liam shakes his head aggressively. Maybe a little too aggressively, he reflects, when Hayden gives him an odd look.

"Okayyy," she stretches the word out, looking unconvinced. "Well, those complete strangers have been cheering you on every time you score a goal. Think you might want to thank them?"

Liam grits his teeth. Those Runners weren't bad guys, but it turned out that they really enjoyed annoying the shit out of him. "Hayden, _stop_. They could be cheering for anyone." He gets a little too defensive, which causes him to shoot the next ball with a lot more force than usual.

It tears right through the defence and smacks the back of the goal net. _Oh shit_ , Liam thinks just as there's a burst of hooting and hollering from the stands. "Woo! Go Liam!" the Asian guy springs to his feet, sending Liam a beaming smile. The girl doesn't rise, but waves her arms that could almost be considered near-enthused, her lips curled in an ironic smile.

Hayden gives him a pointed look and tosses her hair, turning away and returning to her soccer game. Liam growls, making sure those goddamn Runners can see the yellow flash of his eyes.  _They're getting it later._ _  
_

 

 

"What the hell was that?" He exclaims angrily.

"We were cheering you on. You're good at lacrosse, what's the problem?" the Asian, who introduces himself as Minho, says unbothered by Liam's vexation.

"The problem," Liam grits out, "is that I was given a direct order from my Alpha not to let anyone know that Stiles is back. It's hard to explain what you two are doing here without including Stiles in the story!"

Teresa brushes back her long hair. "You could have just lied." She says mildly. Liam sputters. He can't tell them, but he really hates lying to his friends, especially Hayden. One enormous secret is enough, he doesn't need 'a long lost friend came back brainwashed from an evil organization' to be another.

"I... don't like lying." He finally says. Both their faces break into a smile. It's almost creepy how in sync that was, Liam thinks.

"He's so sweet. Like a baby wolf." Minho's positively _cooing_  - god, Liam really wants to punch him in the face for that.

"If you don't shut up, I'll kill you." Liam growls.

To his surprise, Teresa laughs a little. "Liam, if you think you're the scariest monster out there, I'm sorry to say that you're not even a twelth of some of the things we've faced."

Liam gives up all hope of ever having a conversation with the two Runners. "Just take me to Stiles," he says mutinously. Surprisingly, they oblige and don't speak to him until they reach a beat-up, camo-green car.

"Get in," Minho says, opening the door for him. Liam hears a heated debate going on inside, which cuts off abruptly once he climbs in. It was the blonde hunter - Newt? - and Stiles.

"Hi," Stiles says, his brown eyes carefully blank. Liam squirms a little under his intense stare. It looks like he's contemplating something, but Liam honestly can't read Stiles' any more.

"Where's your jeep?" He blurts. _Why did I even ask that?_ "Sorry, stupid question." Apparently, he doesn't react all that well under pressure. But to be fair, Stiles with a car other than his 'precious baby' is a sight he doesn't think he'll ever get used to.

"I had a jeep?" Stiles scratches his cheek thoughtfully. "Yeah, actually a jeep would be much roomier than this rental." His gaze sweeps over the three cramped in the backseat and smiles somewhat sheepishly.

"Oi, Tommy are you going to get to the bloody point or what?" Newt finally looks up from his phone, fingers hovering over the screen.

Stiles waves a hand. "Yeah, yeah Newt. Don't get your 'bloody' undies in a twist," he mimics, surprisingly well. Liam guesses it's the continued exposure to Newt's strong British accent. Minho and Teresa both give a chortle before he continues.

"I'm sure you know why I'm here." Stiles says.

Liam doesn't quite know how to respond and he replies with a lame, "Yeah." When he realizes he was probably expected to continue, he opens his mouth again but Stiles plows on without him.

"Well, it's not just what you think. I mean, yeah we're going to arrange a day to meet and all but I also wanted to apologize. For, that day in the loft." Stiles rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, a movement that's so familar, Liam feels his tensed body loosen instantly.

"I just want — need you to know that when I had the gun against your head, I was never intending to pull the trigger," Stiles admits. "I mean, I'm not saying I wouldn't have if you had actually clawed Newt's throat out or something, but at the moment that wasn't my plan." Stiles finishes in a rush, as if worried the words will disappear if he doesn't get them out fast enough.

Newt raises an eyebrow. "Why, Tommy, that was surprisingly sweet. Hey," he prods Liam. "You gonna forgive this pathetic shank or what?" Liam's tempted to ask what a shank is, but figures it's not the time, not when Stiles is looking at him so worriedly.

"I forgive you," Liam says. It comes out a little awkward, but he's sincere about it. "I mean, I was never actually angry about it. I just thought 'we don't know what Stiles has been through while he was missing' so I felt we shouldn't really judge you'. Plus you were just protecting him, right?" He points to Newt, who nods approvingly.

Stiles' face breaks into a smile. "Thanks, Liam. You seem to be handling this better than... uh, Scott, to be honest." Liam pretends he didn't hear Stiles struggle to remember Scott's name and shrugs.

"He may be Alpha but he's human too. He's been friends with you way before any of us had even met, so it hit him the hardest."

Stiles looks at Newt, who instantly places his hand on Stiles' shoulder. They're each others' support system, Liam realizes. He's relieved that Stiles' had someone to rely on for all this time, but would Scott get jealous? He shakes the thought out of his mind. Scott would have to deal with that himself. "I'll let you talk to Scott on your own."

Stiles nods, if a bit uncertainly. "Yeah, that would be for the best. Speaking of," he clears his throat, "let's exchange numbers so we can arrange a time and date for the meet-up."

Liam fishes his phone out of his pocket and hands it over obediently. Thomas tapped at his phone a couple of times before pocketing it and returning Liam's phone. "Here. Let me know where and when the pack wants to meet and us Runners will decide the time, fair?"

"Yeah," Liam knows it's time for him to leave. The Runners aren't exactly forcing him out but it's clear his business here is over. It would only get awkward if he tried making small talk. Just before he ducks out of the car though, he says to Stiles, "See you later?" _As if it's just like before._ The smile Stiles returns makes his hopes lift. _Maybe it will be just like before, if we give it enough time,_ he thinks.

 

 

Thomas is caught by surprise at the shy tone Liam adopts when he says, with an embarrassed smile, "see you later" It's something so mundane, but it fills Thomas' chest with a warm surge of fondness. Now that he's spent more than five minutes with Liam and not in a tense, precarious situation, he discovers with a flicker of excitement that he does know him. He still doesn't remember anything, but he knows with a strong sense of certainty that he did know him. _It's similar to that vague familiarity I had with Teresa when I first met her in the Glade_ , Thomas thinks.

"Well, that could have gone better. If the meet-up's as awkward as that was, I think I'll pass and leave you to the horrors of small talk and forced smiles." Newt remarks.

Thomas taps the steering wheel absently. "It wasn't that bad. I'm actually getting fond of that kid," his lips are tugged into a smile.

"Me too," Teresa admits. "He's like a party firecracker - loud and frequent explosions, but none do much harm. And it's so adorable how he's so sweet and shy around you."

"Think he really looked up to you," Minho adds. "He might even start calling you Big Bro." Thomas rolls his eyes and flicks Minho in the forehead.

"Slim it, shuckface. Let's get back to the motel. We've got a party to plan."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preview for next chapter:
> 
> 1\. Scott is a nervous wreck over party planning  
> 2\. Thomas reunites with a very special person  
> 3\. An unexpected guest gatecrashes the party and gets the surprise of his life


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALERT:  
> I'm very sorry but this chapter didn't write the way I planned it so the promised 'unexpected guest' character won't be appearing until a chapter or two for now. Instead, you get the character everyone expected, plus a much longer chapter than usual :) Hope you enjoy!

Scott has been feeling ill all day. The jumpiness, the anxiety, all that usually belonged to Stiles. Especially since building a strong, stable pack even if his best friend hadn't been a part of it, Scott has learned to be comfortable in his own skin.

But party planning was never his forte.  
  
"Liam, are you sure he didn't say _anything_ else? Like what we're going to do, what they want to eat, anything?" Scott asks once again. It's only eight in the morning, ages from the time they planned to meet, but he already feels like tearing his hair out. _How do people even do this for fun?_  
  
"Scott, stop pestering Liam. He's your beta, not your secretary." Speak of the devil, the party queen herself, Lydia, swoops in and firmly pushes Scott away.  
"Look at the text again, but I'm telling you, they didn't send anything else." Liam holds the screen out towards him.  
  
_7:30 alright with u? or do u party animals prefer to start later in the night?_  
  
There's a comforting tone to the words, at least to Scott. If Stiles has retained his snarkiness and sense of humor, how much more different could he be? _Very_ , his brain supplies but he quashes that thought immediately. The point was, even though Stiles had displayed his very fine brand of snark, he had provided literally no details on what he intended to do during the meet-up.  
  
After much analysis at home, Scott latched onto the word 'party' and decided this meant they'd have to buy food and other party supplies. Thus the reason the entire pack was currently at the grocery store, hanging back while watching their Alpha freak out.  
  
Lydia makes an impatient noise and brushes him to the side. "Scott, you know you're a great alpha. But when it comes to this? Trust me, you're no better than a fish without fins." She promptly swivels and sweeps some food into the grocery basket, smiling at him sweetly. "So follow my lead, okay?"  
  
Scott feels a little undermined, but hey, if she's going to take on the heavy burden of party planning, he's more than willing to give it to her. He nods in consent.

  
( "He's hopeless," Allison's eyes follow her boyfriend as he trails after Lydia like a lost little lamb, watching in admiration as she picks out supplies with lightning-speed and expertise. She shakes her head and Erica snickers.  
  
"Oh Allison, that puppy couldn't find his way out of the grocery store at this point."  
Isaac thumbs his scarf thoughtfully as he says, "Is it actually possible to develop a fear of shopping for party supplies?" )

 

 

 

"What do you think you're doing?"  
  
He catches them red-handed, with Minho even being clumsy enough to fumble, and nearly drop his gun, in shock at his sudden appearance. Thomas storms over, stands in the center of the mess that is currently their hotel room, his eyes raking over them like blazing hot coals.  
  
"Were you really going to go completely against what we agreed on yesterday?" Anger boils in his stomach and his eyes narrow. "Were you going to lie to me and go over there, knowing they can freaking smell the wolfsbane and gunpowder on you?"  
  
Teresa is the first to speak up, the only one who isn't looking away from him in shame. "Thomas, we're doing it to protect you. I know they used to be your friends but not everything WICKED said was a lie. Sometimes, werewolves can't control themselves, and where do you think us fragile humans will be if we don't bring a little something to defend ourselves?" Her eyes burn with defiance as their eyes lock in a stare down both of them don't back down from.  
  
"This isn't _a little defence_ , Teresa!" Thomas shouts, stepping forward until he's towering over her. Still, she refuses to be cowed, lips set in a hard line. "You bringing enough to cause permanent damage!"  
  
"Minho," he whirls towards him, who winces slightly at Thomas' accusing tone. "You heard what I said that day. How I felt like I screwed up my first encounter with them — are you really going to ruin my second one too? How do you think the wolves are going to react when we walk in, guns blazing? They'll never trust us again!"  
  
Minho looks distinctly uncomfortable. "Look, Thomas... Teresa's right. We get that you want to get to know them again and I'm happy for you, but I can't walk into a room full of monsters unarmed."  
  
Thomas practically spits fire at that. "They're not _monsters_ , alright? The more I think about it, the more I'm sure I know them. I know I cared for them, probably more than I've ever cared for you shucks," _What the hell am I saying?_ He doesn't mean it, but in that moment, rage overtakes his body and he can't stop the hateful words from pouring out, can't control the bitterness lacing every word. "I've wanted to meet them since I got my memories swiped by WICKED. Why can't you understand that—"  
  
There's a sharp sound that leaves his ears ringing and a stinging burning his left cheek. Newt. He'd almost forgotten he was even there. His mind only half-registers the words Newt is shouting as him, still numb in shock. Newt's eyes are tight and hard around the edges and his mouth is moving so fast with unbridled fury that he's trembling. _It's like the days we all thought he had the Flare_ , Thomas thinks with a sickening roiling in his stomach.  
  
"—bloody hell Thomas," it's such a stupid little thing, but all Thomas can think, with a dull numbness, is _he called me_ Thomas.  
  
"Did you even consider Alby? I've lost one friend to werewolves, does it look like I'm willing to chance it again? Are you so caught up with your werewolf pals that you've known for less than three days that you'd stop me from protecting you? That's what we do, Thomas,"  
  
Newt strides forward, until he's nearly chest to chest with Thomas, movements stiff with rage. He sees tears unshed tears shining with hurt in Newt's eyes. It's like a stab in the gut knowing _he_ caused that, and it's all he can do not to duck away from Newt's gaze.  
  
Newt bows his head and whispers angrily. "We protect each other."  
  
Thomas doesn't allow the harsh silence to fester between them and immediately wraps the taller boy in a hug. He squeezes him tightly, feeling Newt relax into his shoulder. "You're right, I'm sorry, I don't know what I was saying... Shh," he murmurs, until Newt calms down enough to pull away.  
  
"Guys," Thomas doesn't even know where to begin. He's still upset over the weapons, but definitely overreacted. It's just, he's so stressed and there's this constant ball of worry sitting in his chest that makes it feel like he's packed to the brim with nerves, like he's just a second away from exploding.  
  
"We know," Minho goes for a pat on the shoulder but Thomas holds him back.  
  
"No, I don't think you do." Thomas says. "I've been trying to hide it but I'm... I'm..." he gnaws his lips and digs his nails into his palm. The physical pain does nothing to distract him, but it buys him time to come to a decision.  
  
"I'm freaking terrified." He admits, eyes flickering to each of them, terrifiyingly aware of how vunerable he looks. But they're Newt, Teresa, Minho. If he can't trust them, he can't trust anyone.  
  
So he takes a steadying breath, and launches into what he's been repressing for months. His fears that he may never re-assimilate into society, that his friends and family will reject him once they find out how screwed up he's become. That WICKED broke him beyond repair. He pours and pours, until he talks himself dry. Distantly, he realizes, they've ended up in a pile on the floor. Like a wolf pile, he muses with a tinge of humor.  
  
Almost like an unspoken message had passed between them, Minho starts talking. Then Teresa. Then Newt. One by one, each of them speak, every tale a dark and twisting one. But strangely, once they're done, it's like an incredible weight as been eased off their chests. They smile at each other, a little shy and awkward, as if seeing each other for the first time in years.  
  
"Therapy sessions with possibly the most screwed up people on the planet, that's always fun." Minho quips, startling them into laughter and breaking the spell that held them for a good few hours. Just like that, they're back to normal, joking and teasing each other. But it's as if a shaft of light has opened overhead, and Thomas can see his friends so much more clearly than before.  
  
Teresa offers him a smile and says, "How about a compromise, Tom? I'm sure you understand that I can't walk into a den of werewolves without defence but..."  
  
Thomas nods approvingly as she continues with details of their compromise. An idea comes to mind when he's asked about his side of the bargain and a smile creeps across his face. He voices the idea, causing the rest goan and smack their foreheads and his smile bursts into a laugh. He watches their lips quiver as they try to hide their own laughter, eyes bright with amusement.  
  
It's the best he's felt in a long time. 

 

 

 

Scott paces the length of the living room, occasionally halting to straighten something or rearrange the cutlery. Lydia watches him in frustration, because their Alpha is so nervous that he's putting everybody else on edge and it's the last thing they want when they're meeting Stiles under friendly conditions for the first time since he was gone.

On top of that, he's failed to notice that he has only served in ruining her impeccable decor with his erratic 'straightening' and 'rearranging'. Returning the napkins to their proper order with an irritated huff, she decides to take action.  
  
"Scott." Her tone is clipped and sharp. " _Sit down._ Stiles is going to be here in five minutes and wearing a hole through the floor isn't going to help."  
  
He whirls around, eyes wide and slightly panicked. "Stiles is going to be here in five minutes? Oh god, Lydia I don't know what to do — I brought the game console over with all of his favourite games but who knows if he even likes them any more? Does he even like video games? We should have brought a movie, or a board game or—"  
  
"Scott, sit down before you hurt yourself."  
  
Lydia's mouth quirks into a smirk. Even good-tempered Allison can't put up with it anymore. But if there's anyone who could calm down this nervous wreck of an alpha werewolf, it's Allison.  
  
She watches as Allison guides him over to the plush couch, arm curled around his bicep, whispering in his ear. Scott gradually calms down, but his muscles are still tensed like he's still expecting an attack rather than a party.  
  
Lydia sighs. _If Stiles does anything out of control, he'd better not be expecting me to clean up the inevitable nuclear meltdown._

 

 

 

Scott knows he's panicking and his pack is trying their best to be supportive but god, he _can't calm down_. His throat feels far too tight but water does nothing to soothe the constricting tightness. The warmth of Allison's arm pressed into his body helps though. It helps him focus and he forces his eyes shut as he tries to calm the irregular thudding of his heart.  
  
He's so focused that he doesn't notice the doorbell ringing until Allison gently prods his shoulder. He opens his eyes to see that Isaac has opened the door and leaning in the doorframe, is the sandy-haired boy from before. He gives them all an easy smile, like they're old pals and slides into the house. Scott notices his leg still isn't fully healed, but doesn't comment on the limp.  
  
"Nice place you got here," he drawls. "Although it's a far cry from the whole 'dark underground cave in the woods' shindig I thought I had you pegged for."  
  
Lydia steps up with a courteous smile and shakes his hand. "Well, I should think not. They wouldn't hear the end of it from me if they forced me into a den like that. Lydia Martin."  
  
Scott sees the boy about to reply, when Derek utters a soft growl. All eyes turn to him. He moves forward, keeps his distance from the boy but is obviously sniffing him.  
  
"Weapons," he actually looks offended. "You brought weapons into our home."  
  
"All of us did." The boy's hasn't lost his smile, but his eyes turn wary and he holds himself taller. Damn, and it was going well so far.  
  
It appears that was the cue for the others to step in. They look cautious, gazes scanning the room, passing over all of them. Taking stock of our numbers, Scott realizes. Now that it's been pointed out, there's no way to miss the scent of wolfsbane and gunpower hitting his nose. Seems they weren't even trying to hide it in the first place. He pushes down the territorial urge to growl at the open threat.  
  
But then, the boy's word repeat in his mind. _All of us did_. Alarm seizes him. _Stiles_ , he thinks, dread turning his tumultuous stomach, _does he trust us so little that he'd bring weapons to a friendly meeting?_ He remembers the Stiles of the other night; voice brittle, cold eyes full of mistrust, tight muscles as he gripped Liam hard enough to have left a bruise if he didn't have accelerated healing. He feels sick, thinking that of his best friend, but it doesn't change the fact that it happened.  
  
"Hey," It's Stiles. He gestures vaguely towards Scott, though with a little difficulty due to the unusually large basket was cradling with both hands. "You've got your weapons and we've got ours."  
  
He's got a fair point, but Scott can tell that bravado is completely false, if the rapid-fire beat of his heart is anything to go by. Even so, his smile doesn't waver as he continues to the coffee table, and sets the basket down.  
  
"Got a little something for you hungry animals," he says casually. Scott senses Derek's hackles rising and thankfully, falling when he realizes Stiles meant it as a joke. Stiles fumbles with the latch for a bit, before the basket springs open to reveal...  
  
"Muffins?" Surprise enamates from every pack member, himself included. Whatever he'd expected it was, well, it wasn't muffins. But now that the warm aroma of the muffins has left Stiles, Scott fully braces for the same harsh tang of gunpower.  
  
But it never comes. Scott even sniffs to be sure and catches a whiff of it, but it's old and faded. Stiles is clean. A relief so immense floods him, that he actually starts laughing. The pack joins in, the laughter a little late, a little stilted but it's there. The tension dissipates and the Runners move in to join Stiles at the coffee table.  
  
"God," Scott says after his breathing evens out. "That's so like you."  
  
Stiles looks curious, almost desperately so and asks, "How?" The blonde however, snorts.  
  
He turns to Scott and says in a mock-whisper, "You were friends since you were born or something, right? Well tell me, was he always such a bloody shank or did his idiocy just develop gradually?"  
  
The two other Runners guffaw as Stiles flushes. Most of the pack join in after a brief hesitation. Scott has no idea what a shank is, but he knows what the right answer is. With a sly smile, he says.  
  
"Oh, well, it was a born talent." That sends everyone into a louder fit of laughter. Even Stiles, after having his hair ruffled by the Korean boy, joins in.  
  
_It's good to hear Stiles laugh again_ , Scott smiles.

 

 

  
"So," Thomas says once they've all settled on the couch, or on the surrounding carpet. "Figure we should start with introductions?" Once the Runners are done with their respective introductions, Thomas gestures to the pack for them to introduce themselves.  
  
The Alpha - Scott, he remembers — jumps to answer. "I'm Scott," he's practically beaming at Thomas, his eyes boring into his with equal intensity. Guilt stings the back of his throat, knowing that Scott is searching him for any sign of recognition. He remembers Liam mentioned that they had been best friends before the pack was even formed, but nothing surfaces in his mind. He gives him a nearly imperceptible shake of the head.  
  
He watches as Scott's expression falls and wishes he could be better than this. Better than WICKED. He wishes he could remember, that all the memories could have flooded back to him the moment they blew up the shucking headquarters. But life doesn't piece together quite as conveniently as a movie and Thomas is left scrabbling at the loose ends, trying without avail to tie them back together.  
  
The melancholy moment evaporates as they move on to the next person and Thomas has to focus his atention entirely on the conversation, to remember all the names being thrown at him.

There's Allison, who gives him a sweet smile though he senses there's more than meets the eye with this girl. There's Erica, who flirts with him shamelessly and calls him Batman for some reason. There's Lydia Martin, who tosses that glossy head of hair back and gives him a perfect smile, as she informs him that her gorgeous hair is not in fact red, but strawberry blonde.  
  
Thomas has to hide a grin when he sees Minho shooting the guys dark looks. Minho catches him watching and mouths at him, "Lucky bastards." Thomas rolls his eyes, though amused because, yeah, the girls are all definitely a catch.  
  
Then there's the definition of tall, dark and handsome, Derek. He's a little broody and he's not the best at conversation but he's blunt and Thomas can appreciate brutal honesty better than most people. There's Isaac, who for some reason, is wearing a scarf though it's not even that cold yet. Thomas wants to question him on it, but guesses it would be kind of rude to ask. Finally, there's Jackson. He's the briefest with introductions and doesn't quite meet his eyes. Thomas guesses, with brief disappointment, that they weren't the closest even before he left.  
  
Liam doesn't bother to introduce himself. He's still shooting mutinous looks at Minho and Teresa. "Hey Liam," Thomas says good-naturedly, though he hides a chuckle when he sees him jump slightly. "Now's a good time as any to make amends."  
  
Liam pauses, then nods jerkily. "I'm sorry for trying to slam you into a locker. Though you were being a jackass." he says to Minho. He turns to Teresa. "I'm sorry I tried to shove your boyfriend into a locker, though you weren't much better."  
  
Minho laughs, while Teresa wrinkles her nose in disgust. "I'm sorry I dodged and humiliated you instead. No hard feelings?" Minho extends a hand, smiling. Liam shakes, albeit warily.  
  
"And to clear things up, Minho is not my boyfriend. That's literally so disgusting, I would rather kiss the rancid, rotting corpse of a pig."  
  
Thomas shoots her a warning look, tapping the side of her head. "Imagination," he reprimands. "Rude in front of company."  
  
Allison looks from one of them to another. "I sense there's a story to tell here..." she says slowly, eyes lighting up at the prospect.  
  
So, for the next fifteen minutes they tell the story of how Liam really got their contact information. Apparently, Thomas notes, Liam left out telling many details of that story to his Alpha. The pack laughs at all the right moments and Thomas relaxes, felling the tight bundle of worry in his chest loosen as the night goes on.  
  
But the moment is shattered once the doorbell shrills, cutting off whatever Minho was about to say. A sheepish smile appears on Scott's face as he gets to his feet and says, "I almost forgot..."  
  
_Forgot what?_ Thomas thinks. _Is it more pack members?_ He cranes his neck to see who's at the door but whoever it is, is out of sight. He can however, hear him speaking to Scott. It's an older man, his voice tired but urgent.  
  
"Scott, is he really here? Please, I need to see him..."  
  
They're talking about him. The burning certainty of that thought causes him to peel himself off the couch and creep forward. He peers out, and catches sight of a man dressed in a police uniform, a dulled Sheriff's badge pinned to his coat. His forehead is creased with worry lines, eyes squinting and crinkled at the corners and what's left of his hair is speckled with grey. _He looks old_ , Thomas thinks, _and tired. Worried_.  
  
Scott turns to lead him inside and as he does, the Sheriff sees Thomas. He hears a sharp intake of breath and his own breath hitches in his throat. The Sheriff is staring at him, his eyes stretched wide in wonder. He takes a wobbly step forward, his eyes never leaving Thomas'.  
  
"Stiles?" His voice is barely more than a cracked whisper. Pain swallows Thomas whole and he tastes salt on the roof of his mouth. He doesn't recognize him, not  
even a flicker of memory. But he knows who this man is — there's only one person he can be.  
  
He's acutely aware of how much he's shaking but he can't do anything to stop it. Then, as if his body is moving on its own, he lurches towards the man. There's a muted gasp of surprise and strong arms wrap around him in a fierce hug.  
  
He's trembling so much his lips can barely form the words, but he manages to choke out "Dad." Then, in the warm comfort of his father - his _father's_ \- embrace, he allows himself to do something he hasn't done in a long time.  
  
He cries. And not the sniffling type either - huge, wracking sobs that steal the breath right out of his body until he's leaning fully onto his father for support. And if the damp spot on his shoulder is an indication, his father's eyes aren't dry either. In fact, no ones eyes are dry, he notices through vision blurred by tears. Teresa has a hand covering her mouth as tears run down her face. Minho actually has to turn away, shadowing his face which is likely streaked with tears as well. Newt doesn't bother hiding it and he has the hugest, most _ridiculous_ grin on his face.  
  
This is the first time he's felt safe since he'd been thrown out into the Glade. The first time things are actually going _right_. But he's been standing there crying for too long, so with reluctance, he scrubs a hand over his face and steps away.  
  
He hears a single clap. Newt's still grinning, but it seems his cheer has infected the others and soon everyone is clapping along. They're applauding. For him and his dad. He doesn't quite know what's so funny about it but he whoops and shoots his friends a thankful smile. They're genuinely happy for him, no trace of envy whatsoever and Thomas is so shucking grateful he wants to either hug them or start crying again. It's an emotional affair for everyone, but soon they've calmed down enough to sit back down on the couch.  
  
They go through another round of introductions, this time exclusively for the Runners. ("Hi sir, I'm the one who saved your son's ass multiple times when he was off being a shuck idiot trying to save everyone.") ("Shut up, Min.")  
  
The Sheriff doesn't understand half of what they're referencing, but Thomas gets the feeling he's just grateful to have his son back. It means a lot, really, that someone out there cares for him so much that he's so happy just to have him there.  
  
He doesn't know if he should reintroduce himself, but really how weird would that be? Introducing himself to his own father? So he simply offers, "They called me Thomas." There's a moment of awkward silence, but it's smoothed over by a well-timed sneeze from Minho, which gets the conversation going again.  
  
They make small talk and chat as a group for a while and it's actually quite enjoyable. He can see why he was friends with these people; Scott's puppy-like enthusiasm, Lydia's sharp wit — even Derek's sourness has a certain charm.  
  
Then of course, just as he feels safe and content, something has to go wrong.  
  
"So kid," The Sheriff says with a warm smile. "I prepared your bed and old room once Scott called me. Our house isn't some sprawling mansion but you've..."  
  
That's the point Thomas stops listening. He goes numb, frozen like a deer in the headlights. Shit, shit, _shit_ , he should have known this would happen. He tries to explain, cut his father off before he finishes making his pitch, before he gets too hopeful. But thinking of deadening the bright twinkle in his father's eyes sends a sharp pang of guilt and pain shooting through him and his mouth stays sealed shut.  
  
He doesn't know how to voice the panic quickly rising in his throat, the familiar fear stirring under his skin at the thought of being separated from the Runners. He's not ready to move in with his father, he's not ready to leave _them_. He knows he loves his father - his body remembers that warm embrace, gentle touch, even if he doesn't - but he couldn't ever hope to understand like the Runners do.  
  
Still, he doesn't want to disappoint his father, show him just how much of his son has been broken, or simply erased by WICKED. _But I'm not him any more, am I? I'm not_ Stiles. A poisonous voice snakes into his head and refuses to leave.  
   
Before he knows it, he's on his feet and the pack is staring at him in various states of surprise. Only Newt looks worried because Newt knows him and he _understands_. Somehow, that makes it worse.  
  
Something strangled makes its way out of his lips but he can barely hear anything over the deafening pounding in his head. Then, like the coward he is, he does what he does best.  
  
He runs.

 

 

  
Newt doesn't chase after him and he holds Teresa and Minho back when they attempt to bolt. "He'll head back to the hotel. Give him space," he murmurs. They give him uneasy nods, but they know to trust Newt when it comes to matters like Thomas' emotional state. Newt likes to think he's always known Thomas better, even when he and Teresa had a shucking telepathic link between them.  
  
Newt's not surprised either, not like everyone else. He'd seen Tommy freeze up, like someone had stuck a knife right into his ribs. And he'd seen his face turn increasingly pained, like that metaphorical knife was twisting his insides.  
  
A groan escapes his lips as he rubs both hands through his hair, leaving it sticking up in a million directions. He glares half-heartedly at the werewolf pack and Thomas' father, who look wounded and confused. It's not their fault, he knows, but that doesn't change the fact that's going to find Thomas kicking himself in self-loathing later on.  
  
"Don't worry," he says as cordially as possible. They flinch at his brittle tone. Okay, so he's not as good at hiding his emotions from werewolves. "We'll talk to him. It's not over," he tries for a smile, especially towards Liam and Scott, who look crushed but it probably comes out more like a grimace.  
  
Uncomfortable silence falls over them as the Runners pick their way past the pack, who they had been chatting with amiably only moments before. _It's strange,_ Newt thinks, _how we all seem like strangers again._ He won't let things end on this note, for Tommy's sake at least.  
  
"We'll be back," he says, imbuing his tone with confidence. His response is a few uncertain nods and pleading eyes. He may have even heard a whine crawl out of Scott's throat. Shuck it, he can't deal with this any more. He pivots on his uninjured foot and the Runners leave the Hale house without another word.  
  
They're only halfway to the hotel when a mournful, lonely howl reaches their ears. Somewhere, Newt thinks, Tommy's hearing it too.  
  
The Runners exchange a glance, and hasten their steps. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a whole load of tests coming up, so the next chapter won't be up very soon but I promise I'm not dropping this fic! I'm too invested in both TW and TMR haha :') 
> 
> Preview:  
> 1\. Thomas has to come to terms with the fact that he's no longer '147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bone, with sarcasm as his only defence'  
> 2\. Stilinski and Thomas have a talk  
> 3\. The Pack and the Runners left are to their own devices - oh crap
> 
> NOTE: Preview no longer applicable because next chapter was written with me forgetting I ever created this preview. Sorry!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look who's back! Sorry for the hiatus, between my crazy-intense exams and my precious laptop dying on me, it was pretty hard to find time to write haha :') If this chapter feels rushed, it's probably because I wrote it all today right after my exam ended without prior planning. This chapter's pretty Runner-focused but as promised, the unexpected guest has arrived- cheers! :)

They find him seated against the edge of the couch, a barely touched bottle of liquor cradled in his arms. Sprawled would be a more accurate description, with his limbs a tangled mess and his eyes dull with intoxication. It doesn't look like he drank much, but Tommy's never been able to hold his alcohol.

Newt thinks back to the first time he saw Thomas truly drunk. He hadn't even drunk that much then either, so it came as a surprise when he suddenly looped an arm around Newt's shoulders and fell into his lap - and no, no this was most definitely not the time, Newt thinks as Thomas' eyes flit up and meet his. He swallows and dispels the memory.  
  
"This," he only slurs a little bit as he gestures lazily to the bottle. "Twice as powerful as the klunk Gally cooked up and only half as bad!" He laughs but they hear the empty echo in his voice.  
  
"Look at you," Teresa sighs, half-scolding. "You're a cop's kid, Thomas."  
  
He laughs again. "I'm in possession of dangerous firearms and various toxins. Sure the police have much better things to convict me for than under-age drinking. Plus, not like I'm going to be under-age much longer." It's scary how coherent Thomas can be even intoxicated, Newt remembers. He's all or nothing; loud-shameless drunk or calm-intelligent drunk. Never seen anything like it, but then again he'd never seen anyone like Thomas himself.  
  
"Tommy," Newt surprises himself when he hears his voice. He hesitates for a moment, then says, "You can't keep him or the rest of them out of the loop forever. They have to know if we're ever going to make this work. Otherwise, it'll just be endless running from them and from the truth."  
  
"I know, _Newton_." The way Thomas says 'Newton' sends a shiver through him and he doesn't quite know why, though he knows it was half-mocking. "But it's hard."  
  
"Tough up, shank, or butt out." Minho tells him, although not unkindly. "I think you know what I mean. Newt's right. You either tell them, or leave now before you hurt them even more."  
  
"Hurt them?" Thomas asks, though it doesn't sound like a question when his voice is flat as it is.  
  
"They were crushed when you left, Tommy. They're confused and hurt and they're afraid you're going to leave them again every time you run out on them like that. If you leave, we won't judge you but it's better now when they're expecting it, than later. Sorry, but you have to make a decision." Newt makes his way over to the couch and eases the bottle out of Thomas' hands. He lets it go, but grabs Newt's arm.  
  
"Don't apologize. You're right." There's an intensity to his words that Newt doesn't expect and it catches him off guard. "We have to tell them... tomorrow, we'll tell them tomorrow. _Tomorrow_ , they'll know and I... we won't have to run any more."  
  
He says it vehemently, as if it won't happen unless he repeats it enough times. Newt's eyes soften. _God damn shank makes me so soft_ , he grumbles to himself as he wraps Thomas into their second hug of the day. Minho and Teresa join in without a word and there's a nice moment where no one speaks.  
  
The moment's broken when Thomas' phone buzzes.  
  
_I'm so sorry, Stiles, it says. We really didn't mean to upset you even though we don't know what exactly we did, we promise we won't do it again!! Please forgive us._  
  
"God, it must really seem like a crisis if Scott's typing with proper grammar," Thomas mutters, which rouses a snicker out of them. Newt watches as he taps a quick reply.  
  
_It's ok. My fault. Meet again tomorrow? I'll explain everything._  
  
Thomas licks his lips uncertainly, before adding on another message.  
  
_My dad's house?_  
  
Minho raises his eyebrows at him but Newt nods in approval. The pack'll pick up on the subtle message, Newt hopes. If anything, they can probably count on that girl - Lydia. She seems smart enough to deduce that Thomas wasn't upset with his dad, not really.  
  
The reply is nearly instantaneous. _Okay Stiles!_ Newt can practically see the hefty sigh of relief behind the words, the shoulders sagging with released tension. He sees it in Thomas too, who leans back against the couch, closing his eyes.  
  
"It's been a long day..." he mumbles, completely drained.  
  
"Understatement, shank." Minho says, before Thomas' visibly falls into sleep, his head lolling to the side.  
  
"Should we move him?" Teresa suggests. Minho steps forward, arms at the ready but Newt shakes his head. Thomas looks darn near peaceful there and he'll shuck everything to hell if that look on his face is disturbed.  
  
"He'll wake up if we jostle him. It's okay, just head to bed. I'll stay here with him... in case." Newt looks away as they nod. _In case of nightmares_ , the word goes unspoken between them. They share a look, before the pair trod off to bed, yawning and Newt comes to the realization he's bloody exhausted too. He can barely expend the energy to grab a spare blanket from his bag.  
  
Rubbing his eyes, he finds his body heavy and unwilling to move. He eyes the couch and finally, sinks into it with a sigh, drawing the blanket over both him and Thomas.  _Tommy'd better not be hogging the whole blanket when I wake up in the morning..._

_  
_

_  
_

_  
_

The pack's a mess once Newt leaves. It's oddly reminescent to the other night, after they'd first found Stiles. They had no idea what was happening and whether... whether he would come back. Scott growls in frustration, _if Stiles is back, why does it seem like he keeps slipping through our fingers?_  
  
He shakes his head. Can't let those kind of thoughts get to him. Not if he wants to keep the pack together. He realizes with guilt that he was probably sending pulsing waves of anxious negativity through the pack bond and it was just making everyone else feel worse. Even so, Sheriff Stilinski was worse off than any of the wolves.  
  
He looked so heartbroken. "What did I say, Scott?"  
  
Scott gulps down his frustration, anger, all of it. "Nothing," he says in what's meant to be a reassuring tone. To his own ears, he just sounds rattled. Pushing his voice to be louder, he repeats. "Nothing. It's okay Sheriff, he'll be back. Newt said so."  
  
"This Newt..." Stilinski frowns. "How much do you trust him?"  
  
"Not much," he admits. "But Stiles trusts him. Enough to threaten a beta in front of his whole pack, actually."  
  
He realizes too late that he hadn't exactly told Stilinski about this part yet. And Stiles got that perceptiveness somewhere. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Stilinski's head jerks up and he says, "What?"  
  
_Crap._ He glances helplessly at the rest, but they don't seem willing to jump to his aid. _So much for True Alpha_ , he marks glumly. "It's kind of not easy to hear, Sheriff. But uh, hear me out till the end."  
  
Stilinski nods, cautiously. "Okay, so remember I mentioned that Stiles and his gang stormed our place to rescue Newt? That's... not exactly all he did."  
  
"He stalked right up to Liam and put a gun to his head, warning us that he would shoot if we didn't release him." Lydia says, her eyes flinty, ignoring the sharp intake of breath from Stilinski.  
  
"Bullets were wolfsbane too. I could smell them." Derek adds in a low tone.

This was most defintely not the kind of help he needed. Scott broke into the conversation hastily before Stilinski went into cardiac arrest. "Guys, stop! It wasn't that bad," he glares at them but Lydia held his gaze defiantly.  
  
"Scott. He needs to hear everything. He deserves it and if anyone needs sheltering, it's not the Sheriff, Stiles' _father_."  
  
His shoulders fall. She's right, but he hates that expression on Stilinski's face, like he's lost his son all over again. "Jesus Christ," he hears his low moan. "When did Stiles... would he really have murdered Liam right there?" he says _murder_  with a fearful hitch in his throat.  
  
Liam pipes up, somewhat shyly. He doesn't know the Sheriff well, after all, Scott remembers. "Actually... that day when he found me at the school, he told me that - that he wasn't planning on pulling the trigger. And he apologized. Although he did say that he would have killed me if I'd hurt Newt. But he's not some cold-hearted killer!" He says it all quickly, his words going in about five different directions. But Scott breathes a heavy sigh of relief, coupled with Stilinski's.  
  
"It's Stiles. _He's still Stiles_." Stilinski mutters, rubbing his temples forcefully.  
  
"You know," Derek speaks up, raising an eyebrow at Scott. "We should probably apologize. For setting him off."  
  
Scott smacks his forehead. "Oh my god. I forgot." And Derek, emotionally constipated Derek, was the one who reminded him? _Maybe you should get that checked out_ , he can practically hear Stiles, sarcastic quip at the ready. Stiles. He quickly finds the name that used to be at the top of all his text messages. There's a brief moment where he wonders whether he should change the contact to  _Thomas_ but he pushes that out of his mind as quickly as it came.   
  
It takes him about twenty tries to come up with a message he's satisfied with, with minor corrections from Allison and Lydia but finally, the message is sent.  
  
A few moments later, a burst of relief brightens his eyes when he receives two messages in succession. "Sheriff," he asks, "He asks if we can meet again tomorrow. At yours."  
  
Stilinski looks to him with widened and hopeful eyes. "Of course," he barely manages to tamp down the emotion choking him, but Scott hears it clearly with his werewolf senses. He turns away politely, pretending to miss the moist look in his eyes.  
  
He replies and turns his phone off for the night. The pack invites Stilinski to stay over but he politely declines, leaving right after. Too tired to do much of anything else, the pack settles down for the night. A wordless agreement is shared between them. It's not a night to spend alone, so they get the blankets and pillows, huddling together in a comforting pile.  
  
It's nice, Scott thinks. But he doesn't miss that empty patch of space between Derek and Lydia, where Stiles used to curl up and he wishes he was here too.

 

  


  


They gather at Stilinski's house for dinner. This time, they keep it simple and the Runners don't barge into Stilinski's house, opting to ring the doorbell instead to be cordial.  
  
Thomas guesses he would be a lot more terrified, but every time that familiar panic rises in him, he remembers what Newt said. They have to know. _And they will_ , Thomas promises.  
  
He even gives a smile when Scott opens the door seconds after he rings the doorbell. He guesses they heard him coming, but waited for them to officially announce their presence, which is actually pretty considerate. "Hi," he says.  
  
"Stiles!" Scott looks like he might go in for a hug, but pulls himself back with noticeable strain instantly. Thomas tries to convey that he understands, but Scott's eyes stubbornly won't lose the guilty puppy look. "Sorry," he mumbles.  
  
"Don't be," Thomas searches for something more to say, but he's at a loss. Ex-best-friends or not, he doesn't know how to act around Scott or comfort him. A warm hand falls on his shoulder. He gives Newt a quick glance, but he looks friendly enough.  
  
"Going to invite us in, Alpha?" He smiles. The awkwardness vanishes, thank god for Newt, as Scott ushers them into what must be the dining room. It's pretty small, but that might just be because the werewolves have somehow cramped three mismatched tables into the room. Well, he supposes it works.  
  
And - oh. His dad's here. Looking right at him, uncertain and anxious. Thomas doesn't need half a brain to know what to do. He runs right over and hugs the man again, letting his warmth envelop him. "I'm sorry," he says simply. "It wasn't your fault."  
  
His dad lets out a long, drawn-out breath. Thomas knows how much he needed to hear that, since he's been thinking about it all night and day. "Okay, kid. Now let's get you and your friends fed."  
  
"I'm very up to that, sir." Minho announces, plopping himself right into a seat. His dad grins and it's very apparent that he likes Minho. See, that was the weird thing about returning to the real world, Thomas thought. You found out things that you never would have expected. Like Minho, rough-around-the-edges, with an affinity for words like _shuckface_ and _shank_ , _Minho_ , being simply charming to parents.  
  
Really, it was possibly weirder than Thomas turning out to have werewolf buddies.  
  
"Oh, right. We should probably let you know that we intend to tell you everything today." Teresa says, as the rest of the pack begins to traipse into the room. Not that it mattered, since they were all eavesdropping outside, Thomas snorts.  
  
"Everything?" Lydia questions, the meaning weighty in her tone.  
  
"Everything," Thomas nods. "Although, I have to warn you. This isn't exactly dinner table conversation so..."  
  
The Runners exchange a glance. "Try not to interrupt. It's a long story."

 

  


  


They take turns telling them everything. Or most of it, what they can bear to tell.  
  
They start from when Thomas, the crazy bugger, was first dropped into the Glade and took off like a shot. Newt tells this part, the memory clear as if it'd just happened yesterday. He remembers when he first met Thomas.  
  
He'd been taking the Greenies under his wing for a while. It was all he could do really, with his limp. He swallows down ancient bitterness from ages ago and skips over explaining his limp. He talks about Thomas, who was new and different from every other one of the Gladers.  
  
He was reckless and took to everything with an intense curiosity that landed him in trouble too many times for Newt to count. The shank was buggin' impatient and to be honest, he was an enigma who Newt thought he'd never figure out. Often, he admits, he found himself torn between hugging him and smacking him upside the head, always wondering how someone could be so stupid.  
  
_And yet so brave._ He recalls Thomas, who'd stood up to everything he'd known, everything he'd come to accept. Who broke all the rules, tore down the walls caging them in, destroyed WICKED themselves. He'd turned the weapon they'd forced him to become against them and it ruined them in the end. With fire blazing in his eyes, he led the Gladers towards a new future, he gave them hope.  
  
The pack members stare at Thomas in awe, but he glances away. Newt catches his cheeks tinted red and his lip tips upward in a small smile.  _Bloody humble._ _  
_

Minho talks about the Grievers, the Maze itself. He tells them of countless expeditions into the Maze, how they slowly figured out the patterns but found themselves stuck in a rut. Trapped by the ever-present curfew of sundown, when the Doors would close, sealing whoever was left outside to a single fate: death.  
  
The pack has probably faced down monsters before, Minho thinks, but nothing like the Grievers and it shows on their faces. They've never faced something so unstoppable, that could change you with a single sting. Their breaths catch when he mentions that Thomas, always the heroic shank, got himself stung just to recover his memories.  
  
"Wait, then why...?" Scott trails off.  
  
"I remembered some things. Apparently, not most of them." Thomas says. It's clear he doesn't want to elaborate on what he actually did remember, so Minho continues.  
  
He talks about Thomas again, the idiot Greenie who stayed behind to help Alby, when Minho chickened out and ran. He can't keep the admiration out of his voice this time. Turns out, he's also a good storyteller, with the pack hanging off every word as he spins the tale of how he and Thomas strung Alby up by the vines and even killed a Griever, making it back to the Doors alive by sunrise.  
  
"Couldn't believe it, really. Thought I'd lost all my friends in one night," Newt gives them a rueful smile. Minho squeezes his shoulder comfortingly, smiling as Thomas does the same.

 

  


After Minho's action-packed tales, Teresa's take a dark turn. She talks about the Scorch, about the Flare, which is a topic the others thought she wouldn't have touched on. But she brings up every horror of the Flare, how Winston got infected and they had to leave him to kill himself before he turned. How they had rabid werewolves with frentic too-bright eyes and frothing mouths chase them down a narrow tunnel with a dead end. She talks about how the Flare turns your friends, your family around you into monsters without a trace of what they used to be.  
  
She talks about how, in the Scorch, with miles of desert and nowhere to go, it seemed like they wouldn't... make it. The lightning storm, product of an insane kitsune. It had struck Minho down, crippling their small group even further. She talks about how Thomas was picked up by WICKED at some point, who'd saved him when he was inches from death, then sent him back into the Scorch. She'd thought he might never come back. That WICKED was just there to collect a corpse, or turn him into some sort of mutation, altering him horribly forever.  
  
She thought she had lost her best friend. And that's what made it all the worse when instead, he lost her. To WICKED, who manipulated her mind and forced Teresa to betray her friends, her Tom. She came back eventually, but she would never forgive herself for what she had done then. 

  


  
  
The pack is silent with horror, unable to eat as long as she was speaking. When she indicates she's done, their attention shifts fully to Thomas. He keeps his brief, but he talks about taking down WICKED. Those brief flashes of gut instict that came so naturally to Thomas, warning him every time something was off. It was what prompted him to push and probe at the Glade he'd woke up in, until it all fell apart and they'd discovered it was never real in the first place.

The Flare, a manmade 'disease' that messed with the brain, making them all see things that weren't there. Non-Immunes thinking they were going insane, turning into werewolves, kanimas, all types of monsters. Even the "Immunes" had it - it was implanted in the brains of every Glader, making them see their friends 'turn' into monsters... that had to be taken down.  
  
He can't keep the bitterness from seeping into his voice as he speaks about the "Non-Immunes", who WICKED picked simply because they no longer had the capability to become 'ultimate hunters'.  
  
Like Newt, he thinks. With his limp, WICKED had deemed him useless, only serving the purpose of making all his friends suffer grief and loss of losing a friend to the 'supernatural'. Anger rises in his throat. Newt didn't deserve that, he was too good to be used as a tool like that.  
  
"And that's why WICKED had to be taken down," he bites out.  
  
The pack regards them in silence, before shooting off questions like they'd given speeches at a presidential election. One by one, they answer the questions and soon, everyone is at least semi-comfortable with the situation. Although they had to calm Stilinski down once or twice ("Those bastards hurt my son! And countless other teenagers who were innocent - and you want me to just accept that?") before he was assured that WICKED was gone anyway.  
  
"We blew it all to hell, dad." Thomas reassures him. Stilinski scowls, before nodding grudgingly. "Okay, son. Good job."  
  
Newt chuckles. "Like father, like son. They've got this kind of 'damn-it-all-I'm-protecting-you' attitude, huh?" The pack all agree with enthusiasm and soon, the conversation turns to something about Scott being unable to eat sushi with chopsticks. It's something harmless and completely silly.  
  
It's a good sign.

  


  


  


The Runners are full but some of the wolves were clamouring for more so they ordered two pizzas to share. It was only fifteen minutes later when the doorbell rang.  
"Must be the pizza," Jackson says. "I'll get it." Scott snorts. _Jackson's intentions are so transparent - he's definitely not getting the door for the sake of being nice. Bagging the first slice?_  
  
Teresa and Lydia are comparing mathematical equations over the table, as the boys' eyes glaze over. Abruptly, Scott hushes them. The voice that floats into the dining room when the door opens is familiar. And most definitely not the pizza man.  
  
"—told me to pass you your stuff but you weren't home. Guess I could have just dropped it off, but I figured you were over at McCall's or Stilinski's. Mind if I crash again?"  
  
Scott's eyes blaze with alarm. "Shit," he curses, searching for an escape route, but there's nowhere to go. If the Runners climbed out the window, he'd definitely see them since the windows face the front yard.  
  
"Stiles, Teresa, Minho, Newt," he hisses. " _Hide!_ "  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't exactly provide a preview for the next chapter since I haven't drafted or even planned it yet, but you'll definitely meet the unexpected guest - aaand there will be shenanigans when that someone from Beacon Hills finds out that Stiles is back and... well, not exactly the same.
> 
> Heh, see you next time! :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back with another chapter! :))  
> Kudos to those who guessed the identity of our anticipated mystery guest and hope you enjoy this update!

Thomas jumps to his feet, heart rising in his chest. The Runners are quick to react, reflexes honed by the countless ambushes from Cranks lurking in the dark, but they've been lulled into a false sense of security for the past few hours.  
  
He eyes the stairs, ready to bolt but he hears whoever their unexpected 'visitor' is already pushing past Jackson and walking towards them. Newt curses beside him. There's no time. The Runners exchange a meaningful glance and wordlessly shift to a defensive circle, Minho and Teresa in the front and Newt and Thomas at the rear.  
  
Thomas reaches into his jacket pocket and draws a small handgun. Judging from Scott's panicked warning, their visitor is a viable threat. He glances at Newt. _Still not fully recovered._ Thomas tenses, and prepares to defend him, bringing the gun up to chest level.  
  
He blinks in surprise when the 'threat' walking in is just a teenage boy, no older than he is. In fact, the expression on his face is almost comical, utterly shocked rather than menacing.  
  
Thomas lowers his gun slowly. _Oh_.

 

 

 

"You can't come in." Jackson says, his jaw set stubbornly.  
  
"Christ, Jackson, don't be a dick." Danny pushes him aside, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "I drove around town looking for you just so I could pass you that stuff when I could definitely be partying it up in the Jungle. I think you owe me. Besides, Scott's never had a problem with me crashing your little parties anyway."  
  
Jackson looks like he's about to say more, but Danny's already walking towards the dining room. He calls out to the others, who are mysteriously quiet. "Got anything left? I'm starv—"  
  
And he stops right there. Because there is no way he is not dreaming right now. Look, he _distinctly_ remembers the day it was discovered that Stiles Stilinski had gone missing from Beacon Hills.  
  
For the first few days of Stiles' absence, his entire group of friends had been extremely vague about his whereabouts, only offering the generic "oh he's down with something". Even Jackson and Lydia had felt closed off. But Danny could sense the worry behind their eyes.  
  
The week after, days where Lydia, Scott and the others skipped school became frequent. It was then that Danny felt something akin to dread grow in his stomach. His gut told him that something wasn't right. And from the way their worry grew increasingly frantic, he just _knew_. They had no idea where Stiles was either.  
  
A few days after that, Stiles Stilinski was officially declared a missing person: _if spotted, call 8334-1246_.  
  
Danny had never been close to Stiles. But they had grown up together, taken Chemistry together and Stiles - well, everyone knew who Stiles was, especially in a small town like Beacon Hills. His disappearance had shaken what seemed to be the core of Beacon Hills, at least to Danny.  
  
The Sheriff for one, was heartbroken. McCall and his group of friends, while close-knit, had never seemed so closed off until Stiles vanished. And Danny knew he hadn't been the only one who heard something stupid in class, waited for the usual snarky remark, until he realized that it would never come.  
  
There had been so many theories on what had actually happened, some whispered behind hands and some held over lunch table discussions. Kidnapped, used as ransom against the Sheriff. But who would target a small-town cop like that? Ran away to become a pop star? Believe it or not, Stiles didn't have a bad voice. But it was strictly a shower voice. And the least plausible of all: bitten by a werewolf and whisked away to Sacramento to become a creature of the wild with his new pack. Danny had no idea who came up with this bullshit, but he knew one thing for certain.  
  
Stiles had vanished without a trace and he wasn't coming back.  
  
Which was why Danny could not believe that he was there, in all his glory, standing right in the middle of the Stilinski household kitchen and - holy _shit_ , pointing a _gun_ right at his face.

 

 

  
Danny startles, taking a clumsy step back. Yes, he's known for being level-headed but forgive him for being a little unprepared for a gun pointed right. At. Him. And Stiles - _freaking_ \- Stilinski, the one who was supposedly missing for over three months, on the other end of the gun.  
  
But _oh thank god, he's lowering the gun, although he still looks kind of uncertain. What the hell? Does he not recognize me at all?_ Danny realizes with a jolt that Stiles is staring at him blankly, with no trace of familiarity at all.  
  
He raises his hands, slowly, feeling thoroughly unnerved as Stiles tracks his every movement with those familiar whiskey-gold eyes - _god, how is he so Stiles and yet not at the same time?_ \- as though he's anticipating an attack.  
  
"Stiles?"  
  
Danny flinches as that single word causes everyone in the room to jerk into action, as though splashed with cold water. Stiles finally puts away the gun, which causes Danny to release a breath he didn't realize he was holding.  
  
He watches with curiosity as Stiles murmurs a few words to the strangers beside him. How had he not seen them there earlier? None of them look local - there's a buff Asian kid, a girl who's too pale to be from California and a blonde with British accent, from what Danny hears during their short conversation.  
  
Danny meets Scott's eyes, hoping for an explanation but he looks almost as lost as Danny is. Actually, he looks halfway between smacking himself in the face and simply fleeing from the kitchen. _Great. I can always count on McCall_ , Danny thinks dryly.   
  
Danny jumps slightly - damn, that's embarrassing - when Stiles suddenly appears in front of him, eyes studying him with an intensity that made Danny's skin prickle.  
  
"Hi," he says. But even that manages to surprise Danny. Stiles' voice is rougher, deeper than he's ever heard it. He sounds so much older than he should be, after only a few months.  
  
Danny's finding all this too surreal to reply with anything but "hi" back. He feels somewhat dumb as he shakes Stiles' hand. _He has a firm grip_ , Danny notes absently. In fact, everything about Stiles seems firm now. His arms have grown muscled and tan and he has the lean build of a runner. He's even lost the bouncy, hyperactive look, which almost makes him seem like an entirely different person.  
  
He can't believe he's saying it, but Stiles looks _good_. Grown up. _Am I attractive to gay guys?_ Danny remembers, licking his lips. But upon closer inspection, there's a haunted look in his eyes that his polite smile can't mask. Danny doesn't know what to make of it.  
  
Luckily, Scott finally decides to intercept. But he doesn't speak to Danny. He says, deliberately, to Stiles' new friends, "Danny's not in the know."  
  
What's to know? Like why Stiles has returned to Beacon Hills? Or is this even _Stiles_? Now that the thought has crossed his mind, Danny finds that he's not too sure. This Stiles holds himself differently, talks differently and doesn't seem as comfortable with Scott as he should be. He's still brushing shoulders with his friends, like he needs their support to stand and he hasn't exchanged glances with Scott with the easy communication they used to have.  
  
Jackson says, in a pointed tone that makes it clear they've had this discussion before. "Well, he should be. Especially now."  
  
A nervous laugh escapes him. "What? Does Stiles have a secret twin brother I should know about? Or did he leave to become an Olympiad runner?"  
  
To his surprise, the Brit blonde laughs. "Something like that." he says slyly.  
  
Scott blows air out of his nose, looking immensely pained. "You might want to sit down, man. It's... kind of a long story."

 

 

  
  
They give Danny a crash course on the supernatural over pizza and Scott is positive they should just start writing handbooks by now. _A Guide to the Supernatural: Werewolves, Kanimas, Evil Hunters Kidnapping Your Human Best Friend To Turn Him Into A Weapon and more!_ Werewolf-approved Edition.  
  
Danny still looks to be in shock, but he takes it better than most. "At least now I know that Jackson doesn't actually film sex tapes of himself," he says, with a wry smile. Yeah, he'll be fine. He looks dead exhausted though. Scott reminds him not to tell anyone about Stiles and then says, "You should head home. There's school tomorrow."

Danny nods, but just before he leaves, he turns around with humor sparking his eyes and says, "And yes, Stiles you _are_ attractive to gay guys", leaving Stiles stunned and Lydia muffling her giggles.  
  
"I love him," Lydia grins, but adds in a more serious tone. "But really, I'm glad he's in the know now. It was hard keeping things from him."  
  
"You guys deal with that kind of thing a lot, huh?" Stiles comments.  
  
"Yeah and you'll have to get used to it too, since we'll have to explain your return to pretty much everyone in Beacon Hills, and the pack when they return." Scott groans.  
  
"Ah," Stiles clears his throat awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "That - I, um. We might not be staying in Beacon Hills forever," he confesses.  
  
" _What?_ " Liam blurts.  
  
Scott's eyes widen with alarm. "What do you mean? Are you leaving?"   
  
"No!" Stiles says. "I mean... yes. But not now. Eventually?" 

"Oh for shuck's sake," Minho grumbles. "Let's just sit down and talk it out."  
  
Numbly, Scott sits down, the rest of the pack following suit. "Look," Stiles tries. "I am happy that I've found you all - my family and friends again. But it's not that simple and you know it. I think we need to stop dancing around the issue and just... say it, okay? I'm not the Stiles you remember. I'm not sure I'm Stiles at all -"  
  
"Yes, you are!" Scott argues. "You talk like he does, you look like he does and you protect your friends. You're Stiles."  
  
Stiles gives it some consideration, then nods uncertainly. "Maybe. But I'm not the same and it's obvious you see it too. Every time I pull out a gun, every time I... do anything I'm trained to do, you look like you only see a stranger."  
  
"Hunting." Derek says, his tone flat. "You actually like it, don't you?"  
  
Stiles opens his mouth for a moment, almost like he's about to apologize, then closes it decisively, his lips set in a hard line. "It doesn't matter that it's what WICKED trained us for. We do it on our own terms. Me, Newt, Teresa, Minho - we're defending people."  
  
" _Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger._ You protect those who cannot protect themselves. Is that right?" Allison says.  
  
"Actually, yes." Newt nods. "I like the sound of that. It means no more Albys, no more Chucks." He gives Stiles a look full of meaning and Scott watches as they shift closer to each other, without even noticing.  
  
His heart clenching, Scott says, "I understand. When are you leaving?"  
  
"Not for a while." Teresa answers. "We haven't gotten any new reports yet. Of supernatural activity, I mean. Until duty calls, we're free to stick around Beacon Hills."  
  
"So... it's all good? Are we okay?" Stiles smiles, but his attention is directed at one person in particular. "Dad?"  
  
It's clear now, Scott realizes, why Stilinski has been silent the whole time. His eyes welling with emotion, Stilinski gives his son a hard pat on the back. "Of course," he gives a watery smile. "Just make sure you come back to visit, okay son?"  
  
Stiles smiles, his shoulders obviously sagging in relief. "Yeah, always. And... thank you, dad."  
  
Stilinski shakes his head, still smiling. "Why'd you always have to be such a hero, kid?"

 

 

 

Over the next week, it's like the Pack won't leave him alone, as if they're still afraid he'll leave any second. Scott invites him over to hang out on Monday and they go over yearbooks and play video games.  
  
"That's you," Scott points to a picture in the yearbook, smile closer to a smirk than anything.  
  
"Gah," Thomas wrinkles his nose. "I was such a dork. Not that you were much better." He flicks the photo of 16-year-old Scott McCall a couple of rows down.  
They both laugh when Thomas points out the stark difference between 16-year-old Scott and 17-year-old Scott. "Before Werewolf and After Werewolf," he names the two stages. Seriously, was it a requirement for all werewolves to be that fit? No wonder he was an Immune - no doubt he would make terrible werewolf.  
  
It comes as surprise when Thomas sees that he was crowned Class Clown three years in a row. "Yeah man," Scott says. "I mean, you were always wicked smart," Thomas snorts unappreciatively at the pun, "but you were a goof a lot of the time too. I mean, a loveable goof."  
  
Thomas scratches his chin thoughtfully. "That's weird. Minho always made fun of how serious I was. But give me a break, 'trapped in a maze, surrounded by deadly monsters' wasn't exactly the best place to perform stand-up comedy. It kind of forced me to be serious because if you weren't serious, you were dead. That's just how it was."

"Although," he adds, "Minho always said I smiled more around Newt."  
  
He thinks back to Minho's exact words, his teasing voice filling Thomas' ears. _What're you smiling like an idiot for, shank? Though you're always like that around Newt._ For some reason, the memory brings a redness to his cheeks and he tries to hide it, even though Scott can hear his rising heartbeat.  
  
"You two are..." Scott looks like he's searching for the right word. "Really close, aren't you?"  
  
Thomas leans back, his head resting on the couch behind them. "Well, yeah. Newt's always been there for me. Even from the start, when I was a Greenie - new to the Glade, I mean. He supported me when I was completely lost, then when I was... messing up, when it seemed like I was the enemy. Out in the Scorch, I would be dead fifty times over if it wasn't for him."  
  
A pensive silence stretches between them.  
  
"You don't feel, slighted or anything right?" Thomas asks hesitantly. "I mean... we _were_ best friends. I don't think I've ever told you, but I'm sorry. For what it's worth, even without my memories, I like you a lot. I think we could become good friends, even if I'm more Thomas than your Stiles. If that's okay."  
  
Scott smiles and Thomas is so grateful because the solemn look just doesn't suit Scott McCall. "Yeah. That's definitely okay. Uh... do you want me to call you Thomas instead of Stiles?"  
  
The question catches him off guard. It's surprisingly thoughtful and Scott's earnest expression makes him smile. It takes him more than a few seconds to answer, but finally, Thomas shakes his head. "Nah. Stiles is just a nickname, isn't it? So's Thomas. I'm fine if you guys call me Stiles and the Runners call me Thomas."  
  
"Okay then, Stiles." Scott shoots him a mischievous look. "I'm guessing your Mario Kart skills didn't remain after your memories were wiped. Ready to get your ass beat?"  
  
Thomas doesn't exactly remember what Mario Kart is, but he follows Scott's gaze to the stack of video games piled on the floor and he knows he's not letting Scott snag an easy victory.  
  
"I'd like to see you try!"

 

 

  
On Tuesday, Allison texts him asking him if he's free to hang out. She leads him into the Preserve, which is actually a lot more pleasant when it's not dark and he's not being chased down by a homicidal Alpha werewolf.  
  
"So, what are we doing in the woods?" Thomas asks curiosly. "You don't strike me as one of those ' _let's sit here and appreciate nature!'_  girls."  
  
Allison gives him a small secretive smile, eyes lighting up in mischief. "You'll just have to see, won't you?" Thomas shrugs agreeably, meanwhile noting that she and  
Scott actually look similar when they've got that mischievous look on. _Power couple_ , he thinks.  
  
Finally, she leads him far away enough from civillization that he's starting to feel like she may be trying to assasinate him. He voices his concerns jokingly, but she simply gives him a sweet smile in reply. He raises an eyebrow. Sweet smiles mean nothing - he's seen girls from Group B smile like angels and be ruthless as devils.  
  
"Okay, this is it." Allison slides the suspiciously large bag off her shoulder and lays it on the ground. She zips it open and unfolds it to reveal a large arsenal of guns, crossbows and even knives.  
  
"Oh," Thomas sighs, although many of her weapons look interesting and he honestly? He wants to give a few of them a try. "Weapons. So you are going to kill me?"  
  
"What?" Allison laughs. "No, where'd you get that idea?"  
  
He gives her a look and she shrugs. "Okay, maybe this was slightly serial killer-like. But really, I just wanted to see what you could do." At his confused look, she clarifies. "Hunting? I assume you've used at least one type of weapon here."  
  
"Oh. Well, yeah, guns are usually my thing. Knives if I have to. Never used a crossbow before though." He wrinkles his nose.  
  
"Actually you have," Allison says casually.  
  
"What, really? So was I actually some badass archer even before WICKED picked me up?" Thomas asks excitedly.  
  
"Um, actually... it was just one time and you nearly shot yourself in the leg." Allison admits, with a half-amused, half-pained look. "And the badass archer was me, by the way, sorry."  
  
"Oh! You... you're a hunter too, then?" Thomas can't say he's surprised, but it does feel somewhat comforting to know she's a fellow hunter. "So what you said earlier, uh," he strains to remember her exact words but he doesn't know any French.  
  
"We protect those who cannot protect themselves. Yeah, it's my family's motto. Argent is a big hunting family from France." Allison says.  
  
"That's - wow, I feel outclassed." Thomas chuckles. "And the wolves are cool with you in the pack? I'm guessing it has something to do with the whole Romeo-And-Juliet thing you have going on with the Big Bad Alpha?"  
  
Allison laughs. "Oh, yeah. You know, Stiles... lots of people were surprised that we were actually pretty good friends, since I was dating your best friend, but you always had my back. I really missed you. Still," she picks up a revolving pistol from the ground and offers it to him, "Want to show off what you can do now?"  
  
Thomas takes the gun, his fingers running over and familiarizing himself with the grip. He shoots once, carefully, at the trunk of a tree. It feels good, the shot precise and the gun steady in his hand. _Argents know their weapons_ , he thinks.  
  
"You're really comfortable with guns," Allison observes.  
  
"Guns were practically my best friends. I slept with them and they saved my life so many times I wondered if I should start naming them." Thomas picks up another gun and lines it up to shoot.  
  
"Did you? Name your guns?" Allison asks.  
  
He shoots again, hitting the tree solidly in the trunk. "One. Isaac, after you know, Isaac Newton. Okay, kidding, never got to hang onto a gun long enough to name it anyway. Although, if I had a gun, I'd probably name it that."  
  
_It just sounds fitting_ , Thomas thinks, _since Newt has saved my life probaly more times than any gun has. Maybe I'll name my other guns after Minho and Teresa._ He snorts.  
  
Allison shakes her head amusedly. "If you're done shooting innocent trees, how'd you like actual target practice?"  
  
He grins, a warmth blooming in his stomach. "Definitely in my element."

 

 

 

"Here," Allison says, her voice low in his ear. She pries his fingers off the gun and adjusts them gently. "Your grip would have been fine but this is an old French gun, and this is the 'proper' way to hold it."  
  
Thomas turns to look at her, a blush rising to his cheeks. Admittedly, he hadn't been this close to a girl since Brenda. Not that he liked Allison as anything more than a friend but the thought itself was enough to make him feel flushed and uncomfortably warm.  
  
"Hey," a familiar, but oddly strained voice cut in. "Is that a 1973 Mustang? Rare things you've got in this collection of yours, Argent."  
  
Thomas' head jerks up. _Newt?_  
  
"It's actually my family's collection," Allison says. "Hunting and arms dealing go hand in hand."  
  
"Newt," he says. "What happened to 'we'll let you have a day with your friends'?"  
  
Newt shrugs. "We got bored and Allison looks like she's got bloody Weapons R Us over there. Mind if I give a few of these a spin?"  
  
Turns out that those damn shanks weren't being respectful at all. They'd simply been following from a distance, but had been unable to resist when Allison brought out her actual professional arsenal at the shooting range.  
  
Minho even gets to try out the crossbow, which Allison cheers excitedly that he shows 'promise' for. Teresa all but falls in love with her Chinese Ring Daggers and practices throwing and handling them for a good hour.  
  
And Allison is actually impressed at Stiles' accuracy with a gun. He shoots every target with dead accuracy, hitting the center every time. He's even beginning to feel embarrassed at her praise. "I'm not that great. It's a load of useless klunk being able to shoot at a stationary board if you can't hit a moving target."  
  
Minho rolls his eyes. "Yeah, shank. You owe me a good two rounds of monkshood bullets from that time you wasted it all on that siren."  
  
Thomas blushes. _God, it's like it's all I can do today._ "That was one time! I was heavily intoxicated and under her spell!"  
  
Teresa scoffs. "He just means that he got seduced by her at a party up in LA and accidentally discovered she was the killer just as she was three seconds shy of killing him."  
  
"We took her down, eventually though! So just forget everything that happened before that, why can't you." Thomas grumbles. Allison just laughs, though he knows it isn't really at his expense.  
  
"It sounds like you guys have had a lot of adventures together." Allison says. "I'm not surprised you wouldn't want to stay in Beacon Hills after all you've been through."  
  
"Allison." Thomas says, looking at her in the eyes. "I'm coming back. You know that, right? You guys need to stop treating me like I'm made of smoke, like I'm just going to up and vanish again."  
  
Allison studies him carefully. Thomas anticipates a long, emotional speech but is pleasantly surprised when all she does is smile and say, "Okay. So, dinner?"  
  
Teresa grins. "I'll call Lydia. She's been texting me to say she wants to talk to you, Tom."  
  
Minho holds his hands up. "Wait, wait, what? You have Lydia's number? I thought you guys hated each other!"  
  
Teresa cocks her head as she holds the phone to her ear. "What gave you that idea?"  
  
"You were butting heads over everything, from math equations to chemical formulas yesterday and..." Minho shakes his head, hopelessly confused, grimacing at Thomas and Newt. " _Girls_ , man."  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, I don't ship Stallison but I've always wanted more interaction between them so this is a product of that hahaha whoops? Anyway, I feel like Stiles becoming a hunter is the perfect opportunity for them to bond, isn't it? Now, for next chapter's preview:
> 
> 1) Lydia and Stiles  
> 2) POSSIBLY the start of some action, which in turn, will jump-start the Newtmas in this fic
> 
> So stay tuned! :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...*slides in casually as if everyone won't notice the month long wait in which I disappeared* 
> 
> Yeah, I'm really sorry about that and yes, I am aware that I am a terrible human being but I really try to write in my spare time. It's just that I had a couple of problems with this chapter and it developed into a monster writer's block :') But I would really like to thank everyone for their patience, especially those who left comments - those really motivate me to write haha! I literally read the comments every time I open up my document to write, so thank you <3

Lydia studies the boy in front of her. She can't quite grasp how he can look so much like Stiles and yet so different, as though he's from an entirely different world. It's in the set of his shoulders, she thinks, and in his eyes. He smiles and banters, but he's never quite relaxed. Always ready to leap to action, whip a gun out of its holster and shoot.

And she can't get the bitter taste out of her mouth after he slides into the booth, smiles at her politely and says, "Hi, Lydia." She has never heard his voice sound so cordial saying her name. It's always been _Lydia! Looking like as good as ever... and like you're going to ignore me_ , or _LYDIA! GET DOWN!_ as the idiot throws his body over hers, shielding her from whatever the danger is, although he is only soft flesh and brittle bone. No less fragile than she is.

She knows that she never deserved him, not the boy that she ignored in favour of every other attractive - but mostly bad - guy that came her way. She supposes she thought she was too good for him at first - oh, how wrong she had been. And Lydia Martin is not wrong often. But by the time she figured it out, she had seen too many of the ones she loved die and she was afraid to even touch him because he might have shattered under her fingers any moment.

She's the girl surrounded by death, and she doesn't deserve Stiles or Thomas. Lydia Martin is by no means stupid or blind, so she watches as Newt and Thomas press close to each other, share glances full of meaning and actually feels something akin to happiness for them. They need each other, much more than she needs what was an ex-almost, an ex-maybe.

Her mind drifts to those whiskey-gold eyes filled with adoration, that saw her, before anyone else did. She wonders if he remembers, if he can still - but _no, this is not the time_. Swallowing the bitter-sweet taste in her mouth, she replies, "Hi, Stiles."

Stiles doesn't comment on her long pause, much to her relief. Allison, Teresa, Minho and Newt follow him into the booth, Allison and Teresa on her side and the boys on Stiles'. Lydia had wanted to talk to him, yes, but now that he's here she finds that she doesn't know what to say.

So they make small talk for a good hour. The Runners have a ridiculous number of stories - close-shaves and near-unbelievable escapes. One of them includes Minho being deluded into thinking he was a merman for a few days and Lydia laughs so hard she has to lean her head against Allison's shoulder to steady herself.

"It was less action and danger than babysitting to be honest," Thomas grins.

"Don't even start with me you shank, you were the one who stuck me on babysitting duty! You and Teresa hogged all the action." Newt shoots back.

"Well, you make a damn good nanny, Newt." Teresa's lip curves slyly. "And we went out for sushi afterwards too. Had some of your favourite chawanmushi." She only smiles wider at the indignant noise of protest Newt makes.

"I think we're all missing the important point here: I'm not actually a baby." Minho grumbles.

Newt snorts. "I had to restrain you from stripping off all your clothes and leaping into any body of water in sight at least twelve times. You were convinced you were the bloody 'Prince of the Sea', merbaby."

Stiles positively cackles and she's missed this so much it's an actual physical ache in her chest. Lydia wants to hold onto this moment forever because she doesn't know how long their time with Stiles will last. Just as she's thinking about him, she hears it.

_Thomas._

_Thomas_ , it says again, in a low whisper. _**Thomas**_ , more insistent. She furrows her eyesbrows and strains to catch the voice again. She knows, instinctively now, how to distinguish a Banshee Sound from any other sound.

_Thomas_ , it's guttural now, almost angry. _Thomas_ , **Thomas** , _**Thomas**_ \- with every repeat, the voice grows in rage and soon it's descended into something feral. She recoils, wincing at the fury raging in its voice.

"Lydia?" she hears from a world away. He sounds worried. If she's hearing the voices, he probably should be.

**_THOMAS!_** There's a deafening crash and a scream cuts off abruptly. Lydia jolts back into reality, slapping her hands over her mouth just in time to halt a scream. "Lydia," Allison's voice is calm, steadying her. "What happened? What did you hear?"

She shakes her head. "Someone's dead. In the Preserve," she absently wonders if the number of murders would decrease if theywould just _cut down that damn forest_. Her eyes search Stiles' cautiously. "The voice - it just, just kept saying your name over and over. It sounded furious."

"Stiles?" He frowns at her.

"No, Thomas." There's a pause and then, everyone at the table comes to a realization.

"It's someone from back _there_." Stiles says, and tension saturates the air between them. "Either a Glader or," he swallows, "it's WICKED."

"It can't be WICKED," Minho narrows his eyes angrily, like he's to blame for whatever's happening. "We blew up their whole shucking headquarters!"

"It's possible that some escaped." Teresa sounds like she's gritting her teeth. Lydia stills as they let that thought sink in. _The mere possibility of WICKED returning is enough to shake the Runners this much._ If they found that WICKED really was responsible, would they all just fall apart?

Just then, Allison's phone buzzes. On her lit phone screen, they see a new text from Scott. _found body in preserve. calling pack meeting 2 see wut to do._

"Looks like no one will get to finish the curly fries." Stiles tries for a joke, but he sounds shaky. Newt puts an arm around his shoulder and whispers something in his ear. The two stand and wordlessly leave the booth. Lydia straightens and stands.

She bites back the urge to scream.

 

 

 

"We've identified the body. It's no one we know and not anyone connected to the supernatural." Derek says. Scott looks at him sadly and even without enhanced hearing, Thomas hears him mumble _she was in my Chemistry class._ He fiddles with the dirty Starbucks card he prised from her fallen hand. There is no way it isn't his fault. Lydia said that the voice was only saying his name. _WICKED's after us and this innocent girl got caught in the cross-fire. Shit._ Thomas rubs a weary hand over his face. 

_She was somebody's Chuck_ , he blinks away tears, _and now she's dead._ But he's learned a long time ago that there are times you cry and times you steel yourself and forge on. He clears his throat and declares, "It's a warning. To us."

"But why this? Look here, Tommy. Those are claw marks. If it's really WICKED after us, what're the chances of them hiring a werewolf to do the job?" Newt frowns. "Something's not right."

"Who else could it be besides WICKED?" Minho argues. "No one wants us."

Thomas turns away from the body, stomach churning and stands. "There's nothing much we can do here now. If you could get two of the wolves to watch the body...?" he waits for Scott's affirmation before continuing. "Then we'll conduct our own investigation and get back to you in a few days."

"Wait." Scott steps forward. "Where are you going?"

Thomas half-smiles. "To see my dad. Nothing like having an officer of the law on your side, is there?"

 

 

 

"You want me to do what?" His father runs his hands through whatever's left of his hair. "Sorry son, but you know I can't do that."

Thomas smiles apologetically and pushes the sunglasses - to conceal his identity - further up his nose. "It's important. Uh, furry business. And, if you don't agree, you might find that keycard of yours missing for a few hours anyway."

His father squints at him, then sighs exasperatedly. "You're incorrigible as ever. Okay, come with me but make it quick."

He's led to a room at the back of the station and his father swipes a keycard before pushing open the door. True to his word, Thomas boots up the computer, loads all the files into his thumbdrive and is out of that room within five minutes.

"You'll let me know if anything new comes in?" He asks.

His father nods and pulls him into a tight hug. "Just... be careful, son. Or I might never let you out of my sight again." Thomas laughs and heads out to the car, where the rest of the Runners are waiting.

"Got what we're looking for?" Teresa asks, somewhat needlessly.

"Yeah. Let's get back, we've got something wicked to track down."

Minho scoffs at the awful pun, but drives faster all the same.

 

 

 

"So, what exactly are we looking for?" Minho asks. He's lying flat on his stomach, tapping away at the tablet screen.

Thomas props himself up against the headboard of his bed. "We've only been here for a few days and our suspect probably less. The fact that he killed so carelessly - he left a shit ton of evidence - means he _wants_ us to know he's here. And he wants us to find him."

Newt catches on quickly. "He would need to a place to stay. He wouldn't pay with cash because there'd be no way to trace him. And the bloody genius Tommy here got us credit card records of every single place in Beacon Hills!" He crows, grinning.

Thomas feels a surge of warmth and grins back. "Now all we have to do is check the records of every motel in town. It's a small town, not a tourist hotspot, so there probably haven't been that many recent check-ins. After you've got a list of whoever's come to town in the past two days, hand it to me and I'll cross-check against my list of Starbucks patrons."

"Starbucks?" Teresa questions. 

"Not much reason for a seventeen-year-old girl to be wandering around the dark woods at night, is there? And I found this in her hand," he flashes the Starbucks card. "It's not likely she just wandered off with the card in her hand either, so we conclude two things. The suspect lured her into the woods and he planted the card into her hand intentionally, meaning it's something he wanted us to see."

"Okay," Minho taps at the screen with renewed vigour. "Let's get this shit done."

 

 

 

Four hours later and they're sprawled all over the room. Minho has taken to sitting almost upside-down on the coach - a position apparently very conducive to his thinking process, though Thomas doesn't see how making the blood flow away from your head would help in any way. Teresa is sitting at the coffee table, papers arranged in neat stacks in front of her. Newt is rubbing his eyes blearily, holding a cup of steaming coffee as he scans the laptop screen with Thomas.

So far, they've gotten it down to two names. Ryan Fells and Isra Esjon. From what they've seen, Isra seems like a more likely suspect. He's foreign and even has a criminal record, that being one occasion of manslaughter. It could have been a result of losing control on a full moon, maybe.

He doesn't want to voice it, but honestly, the more he looks at all the possibilities, the less everything makes sense. While they were at WICKED, they made it very clear how detestable they found supernatural creatures. Going as far as to kidnap and damn near brainwash hundreds of children into becoming prejudiced, hate-filled killers just to serve their cause, being one example. If it was really WICKED behind all this why use a werewolf to track them down? It went against their every moral, every code.

"Am I the only one who feels like some things just aren't adding up here?" Newt finally says, setting his cup of coffee down. "Or am I missing something?"

Thomas shuts his eyes. "No, no you're right. There's something strange here but I can't think of any other explanation for it. It has to be WICKED. The voice Lydia heard said Thomas, not Stiles and no one else knows me as Thomas."

"Technically, a psychic could See that name." Minho offers. Thomas shakes head.

"Even with their Sight, what would their motive be? We've never hurt any psychics, none of them have much reason to go after us."

"Wait. WICKED knows your name is Mi-Mieczysław, we saw it in the file -" Newt says, before Thomas cuts in with a snort.

"Yeah, thanks for the awful butchering of my name, Newt. It's Polish, you can't say it like that with your accent all -"

"Shut your bloody hole, _Stiles_." Newt rolls his eyes. "That's not the point. If WICKED knows your real name, why would they be thinking the name 'Thomas'? If you think about it, who else knows you as Thomas, but not as Stiles?"

Realization dawns upon him. "Newt... are you saying... that a Glader did this?" Thomas asks, eyes widening in shock. Minho gives a small protesting noise. Only Teresa doesn't react, her eyes still glued to her papers, biting her thumb in thought.

"So a Glader... got a werewolf to kill someone... to get our attention? I can't believe it. None of them would do something like that." Minho frowns.

"Maybe not on purpose," Thomas says. "but the possibility of a Glader being involved somehow is definitely there. The werewolf could even be unrelated, but that's unlikely. And on top of that, I can't shake the feeling that WICKED is still behind all of it."

Newt places a gentle hand on his shoulder. His hand is still warm from holding the coffee and Thomas relaxes slightly under it. "Tommy, we trust your gut and you know that. But are you sure this isn't just a little paranoia?"

Thomas hesitates. "Not really. But I want everyone to be careful, okay? There's this dread I'm feeling, like something really bad is about to happen. I felt it a dozen times in the Scorch and it's never been wrong before."

"We believe you. Alright, Tommy? We do, and we'll be careful. But until we find a name, we can't do anything." Newt says. Finally, Teresa looks up.

"Yeah, about that," she says. "I've got a name and you might want to take a look."

Stone-faced, she holds out the paper for them to see. The three of them slide closer and peer at it. Beside him, Thomas hears Minho suck in a sharp breath. The name is neatly spelled out and feel almost deliberate - there's no way it's a mistake.

Aris Jones.

"Aris?" Newt's eyebrows furrowed. "What's that shank doing here?"

The last time they'd seen Aris, he said he was going to find his family. There was no reason for him to be all the way out in California.

"Why not we ask him that ourselves?" Teresa says, pointing to the line below his name. There it is - his contact number. It's almost too convenient.

"He wants us to call him, doesn't he?" Thomas says. "But why would he go to all this trouble and make us track him instead of coming to find us outright?" Someone could be stopping him, he thinks, and a shiver travels down his spine. "Let's call," he decides.

Newt picks up the phone gingerly, like it's a bomb about to go off. Thomas holds his breath in anticipation as the dial tone sounds. The call goes through after two rings and Thomas lurches forward to hear the person on the other end.

"Thomas, is that you?" It's unmistakable - it's Aris' voice coming through the phone. And he sounds hushed and worried, verging on fear.

"Aris! It's all of us, you're on speaker. What's going on?" Thomas asks urgently.

"Oh thank god. All of you, listen," and he says the dreaded words, that Thomas hoped he would never hear again. "It's WICKED. It's still them. I know what you're thinking about the werewolf - but WICKED's changed. They're doing anything to get their subjects back and they're not above manipulating or controlling supernatural creatures to do it."

"So the werewolf was sent by them?" Minho asks.

"Yes. But that werewolf... it's not natural. WICKED turned it completely feral. I don't think there's a shred of humanity in it left." Aris pauses, apprehension clear in his hesitation. "We have no choice. We've got to take it down."

Teresa frowns. "But what would that accomplish, Aris? WICKED would just send another werewolf after us. Maybe something even more deadly."

"WICKED is low on resources. Our hit to their headquarters really crippled them." Despite the situation, the Runners exchange smug smiles. Aris' voice dips lower and he says, "They've been watching me. But they only sent one Beetle Blade and this version can only record visual. I've pretty much figured out their plan - they want the werewolf to take us down, so that they can swoop in and get us afterwards."

"But because they don't have many resources left, if we take out the werewolf, they've got nothing." Minho finishes.

"That's why I've been tracking the werewolf. After he made the kill, I realized I couldn't defeat him alone. I figured, you being _you_ ," Aris says to Thomas, "would look up records and find my name there. I was staying in the same motel, after all, and I followed him to Starbucks. I even planted the Starbucks card in the girl's hand to make sure you couldn't miss it. Glad to say I'm not disappointed by your detective skills."

"Okay, so you did want us to find you. But what do we do now? Wait for the werewolf to make his next kill and then try to catch him off guard?" Thomas says.

"Obviously not. I have been following him for a while, you know. I'm sure you found his name in the records too - Isra Esjon. He's Hebrew. I figured out his pattern and he's going to make a kill three days from now. That gives us enough time to prepare, doesn't it? Stock up on weapons?" Aris says.

Teresa makes a humming noise in her throat. "Actually yeah, we're running a little low. I'll go on a supplies run tomorrow, be back on Thursday. Our benefactor," she explains for Aris' benefit, "is a semi-recluse so he lives pretty far away."

Thomas lets out a breath. "Okay. Looks like we've got to think of a plan fast, them."

 

 

 

"Wait, so this guy is one of you? He was with you in that training facility?" Scott is the purest heart he's ever met - bless him, but he doesn't pick up on things very quickly.

"Yes. And we were right about WICKED being behind all this." Thomas says. Teresa jumps in with a quick explanation, effectively bringing the Pack up to speed on what they found out in the last 24 hours.

"Okay, so what's the plan?" Allison asks.

"If you're wondering if you'll get to shoot something, you're in luck." Thomas says amusedly. Allison smiles innocently and gives a playful toss of her hair. "Okay, the plan. According to Aris, the werewolf will be attacking in three days so that's when we strike too. The werewolf won't expecting us to know he's there, so we'll set up a perimeter in the Preserve and when we've got him in the area we've surrounded, we attack."

"What about your friend?" Derek asks, raising an eyebrow.

Newt shakes his head. "Can't risk being seen with us. WICKED's watching him and if they catch him with us, they'll know we've been told of their plan. They'll change tactics and we'll lose the advantage of surprise."

"So the plan for now? We get ready. Teresa's going off to grab supplies from our benefactor up north and we'll be planning our strategy and setting up the perimeter. Wolves can train and warm up for the fight if you'd like." Thomas says.

Scott nods. "If we're going to stay up planning for the attack, you and your Runners are free to stay the night as well," he offers. Thomas looks at him in surprise at the hospitality he offered without the slightest hesitation.

"Quick to trust, aren't you?" Newt says, equally surprised. Scott only looks a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Inviting a bunch of hunters over for a sleepover? Most wouldn't consider that the smartest move. But thanks, Scott." Thomas smiles. "We might take you up on that offer. I get the feeling it's going to be a long night."

 

 

 

It does turn out to be a long night. They spend a lot of time planning. The pack has a surprising variety of talents and abilities, so it gives them a lot of room for flexibility in terms of their attack. Thomas' personal highlight was when Lydia demonstrated her surprisingly extensive knowledge about bows and trajectory. She spoke in a quick flurry of formulas and calculations of how the long-range attackers should be positioned and where to aim.

Thomas doesn't bother hiding that he's impressed. Because come on, Lydia Martin is pretty damn impressive. Lydia looks secretly pleased when he expresses his surprise, but only gives a dignified sniff and retorts, "I read."

After a heated discussion, they've formulated a working plan. The long-range attackers include Allison on bow and Minho as a sniper. Thomas was initially resistant to the idea of Newt being on the ground, right in the range of the werewolf's attack but he relented when he decided he'd rather have Newt where they can defend each other.

Thomas - "The star Runner," as Minho puts it, as if he's some kind of high school jock - will be luring the werewolf into their designated strike zone. As soon as it's in range, it'll be shot with wolfsbane arrows and bullets to weaken it. From there, the pack will attack and if everything goes well, they'll kill it.

"It's simple, but a good plan." Derek offers.

Newt shakes his head. "When it comes to things like this, anything could go wrong. And with our luck, everything will go wrong."

Thomas nudges him in the shoulder. "We just have to hope it goes okay and if it doesn't, adapt. That's how it always is, Newt."

And that's that. They all seem to come to a mutual agreement that 2am is a good time to hunker down and get ready for bed. "Sorry guys, there aren't enough rooms, so we'll have to share." Scott apologizes. Thomas immediately volunteers to share rooms with Scott just because he is a merciful friend and he knows he'll be saving Newt and Minho from an entire night of awkwardness with the alpha werewolf.

Besides, if Scott beams at him like he personally brought him the sun, that's just a bonus.

Tired and sore, Thomas yawns and stretches his stiff limbs. A shower should help, he thinks. Admittedly, he takes quite a long warm shower, probably more than he's welcome to - but hey, his last few days have been pretty exhausting so he's entitled, okay? He's still running an argument about how much water of Scott's he's allowed to waste with himself when he exits the bathroom, with only a towel wrapped around his waist. He takes a step forward, ruffling his wet hair. 

And runs straight into Scott.

 

 

 

Scott knows it's rude to stare and believe him, he's trying very hard not to. But his eyes catch sight of the scars littered over Stiles' chest and he can't drag them away. There's a particularly large and whitish scar running from his ribcage to his left hipbone. Scott winces at the thought of how painful that must have been when it was fresh.

Stiles is the first to break the uncomfortable silence. "Not very pretty, huh?"

Scott stutters, "God - Stiles, I'm sorry -"

Stiles shuffles over to the bed and drags the spare mattress out from under it. "Don't be," he says, his tone matter-of-fact. "You weren't the one who decided my body would make a good scratching post. It was a were-jaguar, by the way, because apparently, those exist."

Scott trails after him and sits on the bed. "They don't... still hurt, do they?" He says hesitantly.

Stiles shakes his head. "Just emotional trauma." He says, lip curling ruefully. Scott doesn't respond and the silence returns.

He only breaks it again when he spots something dark on the back of Stiles' neck. "Is that a tattoo?" he blurts, immediately regretting doing so when Stiles stiffens. "Sorry, I didn't know it was something sensitive."

Stiles loses some of his tension. "No, it's okay. It's just... it's -" he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's better if I just let you see."

Scott places a tentative hand on Stiles' shoulder and moves to get a closer look. It's not a tattoo - oh god, it's print. As in, _words_. And it reads ' **TO BE KILLED BY GROUP B** '.

"WICKED did this?" Carefully, he runs his fingers over the words, feeling the slight bumps marring Stiles' pale skin. "What does it mean?"

Stiles pulls away abruptly, slipping on the shirt Scott lent him. "It's a brand," his voice is low. "A kind of label. WICKED needed me as a catalyst, yes, to get the others out of the Maze. But once my purpose was served, I was too chaotic of a variable to be predicted. I was starting to see that not all supernatural creatures were bloodthirsty monsters who ate children for fun. So they wanted me killed before the others got convinced by my 'lunacy'." He snorts. "It's a little funny that the psychopaths who kidnap children thought I was a lunatic."

Scott considers this carefully. "Did the others have a brand too?"

Stiles nods. "Yeah. Everyone did. Everyone had a purpose WICKED chose for us to fulfil. Newt's 'The Glue', Minho's 'The Leader' and Teresa -" His eyes fixate on a faraway point out the window. "She's The Betrayer."

Scott goes quiet again. He wonders, if Teresa really betrayed them at some point. But he knows better than to ask and he goes for a more innocuous question instead. "Is Minho the leader? I always kind of thought you were."

Stiles shrugs. "I like to think we're all equals. When it comes to certain things, like scouting for rogue supernatural creatures, Teresa takes charge. Same for the others. But in the Maze, Minho was the Keeper - leader - of the Runners, so that might be why that's what his brand reads."

"They tend to look to you for direction, though. Major decisions." Scott says.

"Yeah, maybe. It was kind of that way back in the WICKED compound, especially when we were escaping. I guess old habits die hard." Stiles admits. After a pause, he adds, "and Scott? I know what you're thinking about Teresa. And yes, she betrayed us once. But believe me when I say it _wasn't_ her fault."

"Okay. I trust you." Scott says, giving him a small smile.

Stiles smiles back, though his eyes haven't lost the faraway look. "Good."

 

 

 

"- That bloody son of a - _that bastard knew we were coming!_ " Newt lets loose a string of curses in rapid succession. Ripping off a section of his pants, he presses it to the body's side in an attempt to slow the bleeding. He's breathing heavily, blood dripping into one eye. It stings, but not worse than seeing Tommy's body in front of him. "Thomas barely had a chance to get away! How the hell did he know?"

Minho snarls, "Doesn't matter. Get Thomas somewhere safe, Newt. We're not letting that shucking beast get away. Derek, Scott, Isaac, we're going on the offensive. Newt, take long-distance with Allison when you get back."

A howl shakes the clearing, full of malice and taunting. Newt springs into action and throws Thomas over his shoulder. He winces, as sharp pain shoots through it. Shit, he forgot that his shoulder was hurt after being slammed into a tree. He grits his teeth and pushes himself to run back to the Hale house.

He's shaking and near the point of collapse when he delivers Thomas to Lydia, who's waiting in the living room. " _Stiles?_ " She leaps to her feet, pitch spiking in alarm. "What happened?"

"That bloody shank knew we were coming and was waiting to ambush Thomas," Newt spits angrily. "Get him some anesthetic, he's in a lot of pain. The werewolf took out a chunk of his side."

Lydia nods and swiftly fetches the medical supplies. Newt kneels next to Thomas body and feels his forehead that's beaded with sweat. His skin is cold and clammy to his touch.

"Tommy? Can you hear me? Lydia's going to treat your injuries now." Newt swallows, gripping Thomas' shoulder tightly. "I'm sorry, it's going to hurt. But you have to stay awake, okay? Don't fall asleep."

"M'hurt. Hurts, Newt." Thomas' eyes drift open, dazed and unfocused. "M'sleepy."

"You can't fall asleep, Tommy. Not now." Newt insists. He pats his Thomas' face when his head lolls to the side. "Thomas! Focus on me okay? Focus on my voice. You can't fall asleep, I want to talk to you. Can you do that for me?"

Thomas squints hard and for a few moments, Newt panics, thinking he might have gone unconscious. But right afterwards, he opens his eyes again. "I like talking to you," he allows. Newt takes that as a yes and breathes a sigh of relief.

He gestures to Lydia, giving her the go-ahead. She narrows her eyes at the mess of blood and gore that his Thomas' stomach and takes in a deep breath. She works methodically, applying the anesthetic, then ointments and finally, layers over layers of bandages.

Thomas moans and occasionally jerks in pain, but stays conscious throughout, as he promised. Newt keeps talking to him, even after Lydia's finished with her treatment, until she beckons for him to move away.

"He needs to go to the hospital, Newt." She says, her lips pinched in worry. "This isn't the kind of wound I can treat with a first-aid-kit. And he's not a werewolf with enhanced healing."

Newt pales. "He'll survive though. Right?"

Lydia draws a shaky breath. "He might not without professional help."

Newt feels the familiar panic bubble up inside him. He chokes it down and says, "I know what you're doing Lydia. You can't go directly against your Alpha's orders. But I can and we are taking him to the hospital, even if we won't be able to keep his return a secret anymore. We're going. Now."

Lydia nods, relieved. "We'll take Jackson's car," she says, grabbing the keys off the coffee table. Newt dashes back to Thomas' side and hauls him over his shoulder again, careful not to displace any of the bandages.

"Hang on, Tommy." He soothes, when Thomas makes a noise of protest. Thomas sags and allows Newt to buckle him up in the car. Newt bites his lip until he can feel it's raw and bleeding.

Thomas clearly isn't up to talking anymore. His hair is matted with blood and he's so terrifyingly pale, Newt can't speak either with his throat closed up in concealed terror. But he keeps himself pressed against Thomas, in case he drifts away again, hoping the warmth of another body will keep him grounded.

He doesn't know what brings it on, but he feels a few tears leak out of the corner of his eyes. He speaks, voice choked with tears and fury, "We can't lose Thomas, Lydia. I can't. Not again. Especially not to _WICKED_."

He glares at Lydia in the front rear-view mirror. She returns his gaze evenly, but there is a lot unspoken in her tear-filled eyes and tightened jaw. "We won't."

 

 

 

Three hours later, they're assembled at the hospital. Scott doesn't care how strange they must look, a large group of teenagers - plus one Derek Hale - all battered and bruised, outside the hospital room of the supposedly missing son of the Sheriff. They've gotten some curious looks from the nurses, yes, but all of them know better than to approach the tense atmosphere hanging over them and ask.

They're let into his hospital room, despite not being family, at the Sheriff's fierce request.

( _"I told him to be careful, I_ told  _him..."_ )

Everyone pretends not to see when the Sheriff crumples into the chair beside the bed, buries his head in his hands and cries quiet and wracking sobs. They're all holding back their own tears.

Newt doesn't bother. He faces them all, face a harsh shade of red, tears streaming down his cheeks without restraint. "Is the werewolf dead?"

Scott feels shame wash over him. "No," he grits out, a tightness in his chest. "It got away. He knew where all our traps were - all of them."

"Had us all running in circles - it was fast - until some of us got caught in our own traps." Derek growls, glaring at Isaac. Isaac stands, eyes flashing, but backs down when Scott gives him a warning look.

A tense silence falls upon them. Scott looks at Stiles, frail and still on the hospital bed. _I forgot_ , he thinks, angry tears pricking his eyes, _how breakable he is_. Stiles may have come back a deadly hunter, but he was still very much human.

Scott had heard him tell Newt that sometimes all they could do was hope for the best. But this wasn't the best - in fact, it was crushing for both the Runners and the pack. The Runners had their leader lying unconscious and heavily medicated on a hospital bed. The pack - Scott could feel the frustration and guilt coming off everyone in waves. Stiles had just got back and now he was hurt again, all because they couldn't protect him.

It was a complete and utter defeat, and Stiles was paying for it.

"Actually, it wasn't a total loss." Minho says, looking up from where he was fiddling with his tablet. Scott's head jerks up at the prospect of good news - he also didn't realize he'd said that out loud.

"After Newt left and didn't come back," Minho says, giving Newt a knowing look, "I took long-distance and managed to fire a rather special bullet."

He holds up the tablet and the pack crowds around to take a look. From what Scott can see, it's some sort of map. Then, he notices the blinking, moving green dot.

"It's a tracker," Lydia says in a hushed tone, eyes widening. "That - that's genius."

Minho smiles slyly, tapping the screen once more to shut it down. "From what I hear, that's you. But thanks, I am pretty brilliant."

"With this, it doesn't matter how he knew our plans. He won't catch us off guard again." Newt says, eyes hardening at the promise of blood.

Stilinski lifts his head and squints at them with reddened, narrowed eyes. "Make sure he doesn't." Scott's jaw tightens. Stilinski doesn't say it outright - he can't, as an officer of the law - but Scott knows what he means.

Scott flashes his eyes red. It's acknowledgement - and a promise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an apology for the wait, I'll try to reply to every comment this time around ahaha! Also, if anyone would like me to check out their fics, let me know because I'm looking for fics to read :) Don't worry if you think your fic isn't great or anything, I don't bite.
> 
> PLEASE READ:  
> I was also considering starting a new fic after this one. I had roughly two ideas in mind and if you don't mind, could you help vote for either one in the comments down below? I would really appreciate it and I'll even give you a virtual cookie or something :D 
> 
> a) Stiles undercover at a hunter academy (possible TMR AU? He could meet Min/Newt/Teresa there) and he has to pretend to have a fight with - and leave - the pack to make his story believable
> 
> b) Something where Stiles has some remnant of the Nogitsune within him / was always a Void Kitsune (a kitsune like Kira, only he still feeds on chaos, suffering, etc.)


	8. chapter eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE TO ALL READERS:**  
>  As it's been a very long time since the previous update, I would strongly recommend that you reread the whole fic, or at least the previous chapter :)
> 
> Hi everyone!! I know it's been literal years since the last update and I have no clue whether people are even interested in this anymore (although there are people who actually still commented on this recently?? wow) but I just wanted to put this chapter out there, for personal satisfaction and also for the sake of you guys. I did promise that I would complete this fic eventually and I don't want to break that promise. 
> 
> I don't have a full explanation to give you all for the long break in between updates. It's a mix of stress from school, my own emotional well-being and my waning interest in both TW and TMR :') I haven't been keeping up with TW at all so I'm only familiar with the characters from 3B-4. Just know that I'm very sorry and grateful for your patience, as well as kind comments <33 While the monster writer's block put me off writing this countless times, I'd often read through the comments you left over the chapters - and continue writing just a little bit more. I can't tell you all how grateful I am for your support even after all this time <333
> 
> Anyway, here's Chapter Eight!! 
> 
> (PS. I was listening to The Greatest Showman soundtrack while writing this whole chapter and if you haven't already, please love yourselves and watch the movie/listen to the songs)

Scott finds her lying on the cold linoleum floor, head pressed back against the wall, body curled up into a tight ball as if she could disappear if she tried hard enough. Her eyes are closed, but she obviously heard him coming, judging by the way she tenses and curls even tighter into herself.

 

“Are you okay?” He asks, before he can stop himself. _Wow, stupid question. I am so not qualified for this. I should have just gotten Newt or Minho to talk to her._ “You left the hospital room pretty quickly.”

Teresa cracks open her eyes and stares at him, seemingly thinking the same thing. After a long silence, she sighs quietly and shakes her head. “Seeing Thomas like that again… it just brings back bad memories. Times in the Scorch. In the Maze. I know it’s not decent of me to run away like that but if I look at him any longer… it doesn’t just hurt me, it’ll cloud my judgement. And in a situation like this, the last thing we need is to have one of our strategists not thinking straight, right?” Her mouth curls into an empty, self-deprecating smile.

 

Scott clenches a fist, unsure how to deal with this version of Teresa. Around the Runners, he’s only seen her calm, collected and fiercely intelligent. The most ‘worked up’ version of her he’s seen is when she was butting heads with Lydia over some mathematics formulas that went way over his head.

 

“Well… I can’t claim to know what you’ve been through but everyone deals with pain differently. If you think this is what’s best for you right now, you should do it. But not at the cost of your own emotional well-being, okay? You don’t need to be our ‘strategist’ all the time.” Scott says, in a gentle tone.

 

Teresa stares at him, not responding for a moment that lasts long enough to make Scott feel a twinge of discomfort. Finally, she nods slowly. “You’re a good leader, Scott. I’m glad Thomas had you even back when he ran with your pack.”

 

Scott shrugs, slightly embarrassed at the unexpected praise. Teresa bows her head to rest her forehead on her knees, giving Scott a glimpse of the tattoo on her back.

 

“ _The Betrayer_ …” he breathes.

 

At his words, Teresa’s head snaps back up and stares at him in shock. A hand flies to cover the back of her neck, wincing as if in pain. Scott realises his mistake instantly.

 

“Oh god – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say it out loud. It’s just… I saw Stiles’ tattoo the other day and he sort of, explained all of your tattoos. I didn’t mean anything by it. I know it was a long time ago and all of you were under WICKED’S control. I know you wouldn’t betray Thomas again.” Scott says, frantically attempting to fix his mistake.

 

“…Yeah. And those aren’t tattoos – they’re _brandings._ They labelled us like livestock and tried to control us. It won’t happen again.” Teresa says, words measured and even, but Scott can hear the fiery defiance in her tone. “I’ll _never_ betray the Runners. They’re my family.”

 

“Okay. I trust you.”

 

* * *

 

“–and yeah, that’s the plan.”

 

“What? No, I hate this plan. Not doing it – nope, son. I’m officially grounding you.” Stilinski shakes his head vehemently, eyes bulging at Thomas’ words.

 

“What? You can’t do that, I’m a grown-ass man, Dad. And it’s the best shot we’ve got!” Thomas protests.

 

“If _this_ is the best plan you can think of, you’re not thinking hard enough!” Stilinski growls. “You’re lying in a _hospital bed_ right now, Stiles, I can’t let you risk your life again like this!”

 

“The werewolf knows we’ve been setting traps for it, Dad. He won’t come after us if he knows we’re prepared. But if he sees me alone and vulnerable, he’ll definitely attack. The rest of you can ambush him and take him down.” Thomas pleads. “We have to do this. The thought of WICKED still active and potentially hurting other people… We have to end this as soon as possible.”

 

Newt cuts in. “We understand your concern, sir. Believe me, we argued for hours before I finally agreed to this shuck plan. But it’s a good plan despite the risk. Despite how it looks, Thomas won’t actually be alone. We picked out a warehouse that has several good hiding spots, on ground and in the rafters above. We’ll also have Aris on surveillance from outside.”

 

Stilinski groans, rubbing his face vigorously in frustration. “Why do you always give me stress like this, kid? It’s like you _want_ me to have a heart attack.”  
 

Despite himself, Thomas smiles. “Thanks Dad. Don’t worry, we’ll be really careful this time. I promise.”

 

Right on cue, a small group of teenagers march into the room, a lean, imposing girl at the forefront and Scott rounding up the group at the back. There’s a faint _You can’t go in there without a visitors pass!_ from outside the room, all of which the group of teens ignore.

 

“Wow, what’s this, Scott?” Thomas grins.

 

“Backup.” Scott grins back. “So you have wished it, so it shall be.”

 

“You’re the best shucking fairy godmother ever,” Thomas says solemnly. “Also, nice to meet you guys. Again. I guess you all already know me?”

 

The girl who was leading the group of teens earlier storms up to him. She’s intimidating, sure, but Thomas doesn’t flinch. She stares down at him, seemingly inspecting his wounds, before letting loose a low growl. She whips towards Scott and growls out, “McCall. You don’t get to tell me that you’ve found Stiles and that he’s _lost all his memories,_ get me to fly back to Beacon Hills, and then tell me on the plane ride he’s somehow got life-threateningly injured again! _Explain_.”

 

“Malia, calm down. We’ll explain everything. Can you guys huddle up so we can go over the plan together?” Scott says calmly, in what Thomas dubs his ‘Alpha Voice’.  Still glaring, Malia moves over to allow the rest of the group space. There’s an Asian girl, a black man and another blond girl.

 

As Scott explains the situation and briefs them on the plan, Thomas studies each of them in turn. All of them seem to be in shape and should be good fighters, if they’re in Scott’s pack. Despite himself, he’s feeling pretty optimistic about their chances.

 

About an hour later, after the rest of them have said their greetings to him and left, to his surprise, Malia sticks around. Newt eyes her warily, always cautious of strangers so Thomas squeezes his hand in reassurance.

 

She stares at him silently, as if studying him. He knows that look. He’d caught many of the pack giving him he exact same stare at first when they thought he wasn’t looking.

 

So he waits. Doesn’t say anything, just waits for her to be ready.

 

Finally, she says, “You really don’t remember any of us, do you?”

 

Thomas hesitates before answering. “It comes back in bits and pieces sometimes. My memory, I mean. But right now… no, I don’t remember you. I’m sorry. You look at me like… we were close, weren’t we? Scott looked at me like that too.”

 

To his surprise, Malia shakes her head. “No. No one was close like you and Scott were. You two were the backbone of the pack. But I’ve always been indebted to you. Even if you don’t remember, I’ll always owe you. You took me in and cared for me when no one else could be bothered to. The rest came around, but you were the first.”

 

Thomas… doesn’t quite know what to say to that. Her bluntness is jarring, but somehow refreshing at the same time. “Oh. So we were close friends then?”

 

Malia studies him intently for a long moment. Her gaze even flickers to Newt for a second. He starts to get the feeling that he said something wrong, but then she speaks up again.

 

“Yes. We were good friends.”

 

With that she gives both of them a nod and leaves the room. Newt whistles lowly.

 

“Intense, ain’t she? Glad she’s on our side then.”

 

* * *

 

“So this is it, then.” Thomas leans back. “Everything and everyone ready?”

 

“Shut up, kid, you _know_ I’ll never be ready for you to risk your life under any circumstance – you’re in a _wheelchair_ for god’s sake!” Stilinski clucks his tongue disapprovingly. “But if anyone can pull off a ridiculously dangerous plan, it’s you. You’d better come back safe, son.”

 

Thomas gives his father a hug, a comforting warmth settling in his belly. “Thanks Dad,” he says, voice muffled by Stilinski’s shirt. “Of course I will.”

 

“ _Really,_ Stiles,” Scott says, the worry all too evident in his tone. “Be _careful_. And check, is your communicator working?”

 

“Yep,” Thomas says, pressing the communicators on his wrist and ear. “Feels great. I’ve always wanted one of these. Feels like I’m in a spy movie. With werewolves. And evil organisations run by psychos.”

 

“Go for it, shank.” Minho smirks. “Stop wasting time with your sappy klunk, I want to test out these cool wolfsbane smoke bombs Teresa brought back from our dealer.”

 

Thomas rolls his eyes but smiles back, knowing it’s Minho’s way of saying _good luck, I have full confidence you can do it_. “Always a comforting presence, you are.” He jokes.

 

Newt simply presses to his side with a one-armed hug, murmuring a simple _good luck, Tommy_. Whatever nerves and concerns he’d had, they’d already talked about it the night before, giving Thomas a steady sense of assurance.

 

“We’re a team.” Teresa says, simply put. “No matter what happens in there, although it looks like you’re going in alone for this one, remember that. Even the pack’s here to back us up. Trust each other and we’ll all get out of this alive, alright?”

 

Thomas smiles at her, grateful for her cool head even under tense situations. He claps his hands. “Okay, enough of all that. I’m going in before you guys somehow talk me out of it.”

 

Gentle laughter bubbles from the group. Once the laughter dissipates, they part ways, leaving Thomas alone to make his way to the warehouse.

 

“Okay,” he mutters to himself. “I’ve ridden on the back of a Griever once. I can totally handle manoeuvring a wheelchair through a few blocks in a city.”   


* * *

 

A half hour later, more than enough time for the rest to do final perimeter checks using the cameras the Argents loaned them, Thomas finds himself in the warehouse.

 

Fifteen minutes later, there’s still no sight of the werewolf, even two blocks away. He knows the rest of the Runners and pack must be getting as antsy as he is. Something’s off.

 

Cautiously, Thomas brings his wrist to his mouth. “This doesn’t make any sense. If the werewolf was really feral like Aris said, he should have already been onto me. I’m in a wheelchair, alone, in a deserted location. Literally easy prey.”

 

A buzz, then Minho’s voice is in his ear. “No sight of Isra Esjon for the next three blocks.”

 

“I can’t keep waiting around. Something feels wrong. We should just call this off.” Thomas says, unease bubbling like acid in his stomach. Just then, the doors to the warehouse creak open.

 

“I thought you said the werewolf wasn’t nearby!” Thomas hisses into his communicator.

 

“Yeah, he isn’t.” Minho says, sounding equally confused. “It’s just Aris. I thought he was supposed to be working with Teresa on the wolfsbane bombs. Maybe something changed?”

 

“Aris!” Thomas calls out. “What’s going on? You aren’t supposed to be seen with us.”

 

“Change of plan, Tommy. Teresa agreed, we should draw WICKED themselves here, since their werewolf evidently isn’t coming after you for some reason.” Aris shrugs, striding over.

 

“Seems risky. Half our weapons won’t work then, since most of them are wolfsbane.” Thomas frowns. “Wait – did you just call me _Tommy_?”

 

“Yeah? What’re you so touchy about it for?” Aris looks at him oddly. _His muscles are tense_ , Thomas observes. “Besides, we’ve still got the pack. They can fight WICKED with their teeth and claws and whatever beastly attributes they have, right?”

 

It’s not just unease roiling in his gut now, it’s alarm bells ringing in his head.

 

Slowly, Thomas says, “Aris, I think we should back out and regroup. This is too risky, we’ve got to think of a new plan that accounts for WICKED’s presence.”

 

Aris shakes his head firmly. “Teresa said this is the best course of action.”

 

“Yeah well, I disagree.” Thomas says. “I think I’d rather talk to her face-to-face. Discuss it as a team before we proceed. Or – Minho, can you connect my line with Teresa’s?” Even now, he feels the absence of her telepathic presence in his mind uncomfortable.

 

“…I can’t connect your lines. Actually no – Teresa’s line’s been cut off.” Minho says, voice increasingly worried. Thomas sucks in a sharp intake of breath. “What’s going on over there?”

 

“Aris, I’m getting out. Something’s gone wrong and Teresa needs help. I’ve got a bad feeling.” Thomas says urgently.

 

Aris goes strangely still.

 

“Yes, unfortunately, I can’t let that happen,” he says, but his voice sounds different. Lower, gruffer. He smiles. “I thought I’d keep up the gig a little longer, but I’ve probably bought them enough time by now, right?”

 

“What are you talking about?” he asks, but he already knows. Heart pounding, he watches as Aris changes before him.

 

It’s not Aris at all.

 

Memories flood back, of his younger self and his father sat at the dining table, working out newspaper puzzles over Sunday breakfast. His favourites were always the scrambled word puzzles.

 

_Isra Esjon._

_Aris Jones._

 

“Minho! Backup, _now_! Aris is the werewolf!” Thomas barks. “ _Aris is the werewolf!”_

As his body grows larger, stronger and his eyes begin the glow, his face morphs as well. _A witch’s work_ , _a glamour to make him look like Aris_ , the sickening realisation hits him, _which means the real Aris has been captured by WICKED_.

 

“Where’s the real Aris?” Thomas snarls, fists clenched, fully aware of the lack of weapons on his person. “ _What have you bastards done to him_?”

 

The werewolf sneers. “Worry about yourself first, why don’t you? You’re sitting in a wheelchair, no weapons, no supernatural powers.”

 

_Why’s he taunting me? He’s been posing as Aris, he_ knows _I’ve got backup. The only chance he’s got to hurt me is before they come and yet he isn’t doing anything!_ Thomas’ mind races. The alarm bells sound in his head again, a clear sign something’s wrong. _But what is it?_

“Five seconds.” Minho murmurs into his ear.

 

The realisation comes a beat too late.

 

The whole pack bursts into the warehouse, growling and snarling, the picture of intimidation.

 

Just as the wolfsbane bombs go off in the warehouse.

 

The pack is down in an instant, coughing and sputtering, their glowing eyes flickering and bodies writhing in pain.

 

Thomas stares, horrified.

 

Even the werewolf posing as Aris is on the ground, twisting in silent pain. But something tells Thomas that this has all gone to plan for someone. His gaze swings around wildly. _This is someone else’s plan. The werewolf was just a pawn._

 

Just as he predicted, through the open warehouse doors strides in a thin man, with graying hair. He’s dressed in a crisp, pristine suit, which seems starkly inappropriate for the occasion.

 

“Shucking _Rat Man_?” Minho hisses through the communicator. “Shuck the plan, I’m going down there.”

 

“Thomas!” the Rat Man calls out, actually looking _happy_ to see him. “It’s good to see you again. It’s been too long.”

 

“It really hasn’t.” Thomas grits out, fully aware of the pack members lying unconscious and defenceless around him. “What do you want, Janson?”

 

The Rat Man laughs. It’s an ugly sound. “Always so quick to get to the point. You haven’t changed one bit, Thomas. Or should I say, _Stiles?_ ” At Thomas’ stony, unchanging expression, he sighs and continues. “Fine, I’ll oblige you. I’m making you a deal.”

 

“Come back to WICKED and work for us.” He spreads out his arms, as if making a grand gesture. Thomas stiffens. “You were one of our best. You’re _brilliant_ , Thomas and you’re wasting it all playing hunter and toying with guns. If you really want to make a difference, _join us_. We’ll stop the supernatural from harming people _for good_.”

 

Thomas shakes his head, backing away slightly. “That’s not what I want. I’m not your brainwashed _experiment_ anymore. You don’t control me.”

 

The Rat Man sighs. “I’m truly disappointed that that’s what you think, Thomas. Well, I didn’t really expect that to work, so here’s the real deal. You join us, I leave all your friends alone. The pack, the Runners. For good. I’ll never go after them, so as long as you’re still working for us. And that includes that British boy my men have a gun pointed to _right now_.”

 

The Rat Man holds up a phone, put on speaker.

 

“ _–get your filthy hands away from my – mmfh – Tommy? Tommy, ‘s that you? Listen, Tommy, don’t listen to them, don’t give yourself up, you_ can’t _– AH!”_ Newt’s panicky voice is cut off with a strangled scream, clearly in pain.

 

Thomas freezes.

 

“Ah, got your attention now, huh?” The Rat Man smiles, pleased. “It’s an easy choice, I’m telling you. How selfish can you be? If you refuse, nothing changes anyway. My men blow his brains out and I take you. Lose-lose. _Or_ , we keep your friend alive but we inject him with the ‘Flare’ again.” He chuckles darkly. “It’d be like a rerun of an old show! Let him slowly go mad until he _begs_ for you to kill him again, eh?”

 

Thomas _really_ wishes he has a comeback. He can feel the eyes of the pack on him, horrified and silent. But he doesn’t have anything to say. He can’t put Newt through that again, and the Rat Man knows it.

 

“What does this _deal_ entail?” Thomas growls out. The Rat Man claps his hands together, delighted.

 

“I knew you’d see sense!” He crows. “Well, you already know most of the details, really. You’d be working for us and during the duration in which you work for us, we’ll leave your friends alone. And just because I’m a generous man, we’ll even let you undergo the Swipe again!”

 

“ _What?_ ” Thomas jerks away, fear pounding through his veins.

 

“Don’t worry, Thomas.” The Rat Man says solemnly. “You’ll forget everything and everyone. The pack, the Runners. Joining us won’t even be painful for you. Because working at WICKED will be all you ever remember.”

 

“No…” Thomas swallows, a bitter rush of panic and fear choking him. “No! _No,_ I-I _can’t_! You can’t take them away from me… they’re my _family_!”

 

The Rat Man tsks. “That’s exactly why it’ll be less painful for you in the long run for you to forget about them. When you’re working for us, I want you to be doing it _willingly_. In fact, I have the Swipe right here. It might be best just to administer it now. To save the… struggle.”

 

He raises the syringe.

 

Panic overwhelms him. He struggles to his feet and wobbles unsteadily, simply intent on getting as far away from Janson as possible. Black spots cloud his eyes from his sudden increase in blood pressure. He struggles away, in a pathetic, jerking motion.

 

With barely any effort, the Rat Man catches up to him and pins him to the floor.

 

“Don’t worry. It’ll be painless.” The Rat Man says in what he supposes is meant to be a reassuring tone. In reality, it chills Thomas to the bone. “I hope we can be good friends after this, Thomas. After all, we’ll be colleagues.”

 

He registers the faint prick of the needle sinking into his skin. Just as Janson promised, it’s painless but that doesn’t provide any form of comfort.

 

The last thing he hears before the blackness yanks him under is Scott’s desperate yell of _NO!_ and a single gunshot.

 

* * *

 

“Well done, Teresa! Sharp as ever.” The man – Janson, Thomas called him – beams. Scott looks down, swaying dizzily. There’s a bullet wound in his chest. _Wolfsbane_ , going by the numbing of his senses that is sure to be followed by pain soon.

 

Scott looks back up, meeting Teresa’s eyes, gaping in disbelief. Coolly, she lowers the arm she used to shoot and turns towards Janson, breaking eye contact with Scott.

 

_The Betrayer,_ Scott thinks numbly,  _The Betrayer_.

 

“We have to go, Janson. The wolfsbane might wear off any moment.” After a thought, she adds. “If it doesn’t kill the weaker ones off.”

 

Janson laughs, waving a hand as if to say _no worries_. “And I must say, _fantastic_ timing with the wolfsbane bombs. I knew I could count on you, dear.”

 

“I don’t do inaccuracy, Janson. You should know that.” Teresa says coldly. Janson takes it in stride, clapping her on the back.

 

“Alright, I can see you’re in a hurry to get back to HQ. Excited to work with Thomas again, eh? It’ll be just like old times for you two.”

 

“Teresa,” Scott says slowly, pained. “How could you do this? You said the Runners were your _family_.”

 

Teresa nods in acknowledgement, eyes fixated on his with an intensity he’s almost shocked by, given her calm expression. “They are. They’ll always be my family. That’s why I’m doing what’s best for them. Thomas forgot but I know… WICKED is good.”

 

“These people tortured your friends! They’re threatening your Runners right now. How can you be okay with that?” Scott cries, mostly out of desperation. He’s not sure what he’s even fighting for now. Stiles, Thomas, both sides of him are gone. _It’s over._

“You don’t know anything about WICKED, Scott. _Trust me_.” Teresa says, before she leaves the warehouse, with Janson and Stiles in tow.

 

Scott presses a hand against his bullet wound, applying so much pressure it’s painful. He sinks to his knees, defeated, wondering how everything could have gone wrong so quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you all for your support and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!! Remember to leave your comments so I know how you guys feel about this chapter eg. what was good/bad or what you'd like to see in the next update :)

**Author's Note:**

> So there's the first chapter! I mostly wanted to position everyone first, so the actual confrontation you see in the summary comes in the next chapter, which will be uploaded tomorrow. Leave a kudos or comment telling me what you'd like to see in this fic and I might include it in the story :)


End file.
